


4.24 Woodstickin' 2016!

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, Innuendo, Supernatural Music, Teen Romance, sexy talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-05 15:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17921861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: As the greatest music festival ever to hit the central Cascades area of one part of Oregon looms, the Pines twins and their friends prepare for tuneful chaos . . . if Mabel can only learn something about boundaries and consideration for her bro-bro. Get ready for revealing clothes, uninhibited dancing, and good times to a beat that's almost hypnotic. Wendip, of course. Complete in 14 chapters.





	1. Ebb Tide

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the show GRAVITY FALLS or any of the characters; both are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of Alex Hirsch. I make no money from these stories but write just for fun and in the hope that other fans enjoy reading them.

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**(August 17, 2016)**

**1: Ebb Tide**

* * *

_A short time after the sun rose that morning, the sea went away from the shore. It looked like the lowest tide anyone had ever seen. Fish were left stranded on the sand. Many of the villagers went out with baskets to collect them. At least 100 of them were still far from safety when the great wave roared in, the highest of all high tides, drowning the whole village. -From Kino Yoshida,_ A Description of the Tidal-Wave at Shīpāru, 1794, tr. Carlson Kettering, 1851.

* * *

We call them tsunamis today, not tidal waves, but Kino's eyewitness account is one of the first in the modern era to record the strange receding of the ocean just prior to the catastrophic flood surge.

And the same phenomenon happens in Gravity Falls when Woodstick is coming to town. OK, granted, it's a long reach for a metaphor, but consider: The crowds roll in on Thursday. Mid-August is typically a moderately busy time for tourist tra—um,  _attractions_  like the Mystery Shack. During the actual music festival, Soos Ramirez even tricks out an RV as a remote rolling Mystery Shack, parks it in Merchants' Row, and makes a butt-load of money from festival attendees. And it was Stanley Pines's idea—he, of course, being one of the two owners of the Mystery Shack—to provide free music-festival parking and a shuttle service at the main site of the Mystery Shack, and, hey, every suck—um, patron who parks there inevitably tours and shops and spends dough in the Shack.

Sweet deal, and it helps that Stan took over as the festival promoter a few years back. As he might modestly say, "Ca-ching, baby! Heh, heh!"

But like the mighty sea, the normal tide of August tourists backs off in the couple of days before crowds pour in for Oregon's biggest festival of independent bands, upcoming and downgoing rockers, and crazy overpriced fun. So that Wednesday, business was slow at the Shack. Even Stan, who was working off his nervous energy before the festival got underway (nervous, because he always wondered, "are the authorities gonna inspect for safety violations this year?") as Mr. Mystery—even Stan got a little bored.

Mabel was actually lying on her back on the gift-shop floor, trying to keep a small, downy, white feather floating by puffing on it. The dog Tripper, his cone now off for good, lay beside her, watching the feather with interest.

With no tourists to take out on the Mystery Trail, Soos had time to collect the mail from the box down by the highway. He returned and said, "Hey, it came!" Dipper was doing a Wendy—he'd propped his chair back against the wall and had his feet up on the counter, his eyes half-closed. Wendy sat on a stool next to him, torso folded down over the counter, forehead on her crossed forearms, evidently asleep. Soos opened a small package and nudged her. "Hey, Wendy, girl dude! I got something for you."

"Slide it under the door," Wendy muttered.

But Mabel bounded up, and Tripper fielded and ate the small fluffy feather. "What is it? A present? I bet it's a present! Is it a present?"

With a grunt, Wendy straightened up and yawned. "Chill, Mabes. Whatcha got there, Soos?"

"This!" Soos said. He cleared his throat. "OK, so like I forgot for a long time, but then, like I remembered! Boom, just like that! I was down in the copier store? And they make, like plastic door plates and junk, so I asked them, and they didn't make these but they said they could, like, order one for me, and so I said do it and they did it, and like, here it is! Congratulations, Wendy!"

"Yay!" cheered Mabel. "Wait, what for?"

"Oh, Soos!" Wendy said, accepting a gleaming gold metal name badge from him. "Look, guys!"

Dipper put his feet down and his chair upright. "Cool!" he said.

Wendy held the badge up. It read

* * *

**WENDY CORDUROY**

**MANAGER**

* * *

"Huh? What's the deal? You've been manager for a long time," Mabel said.

Wendy unpinned the faux-metal plastic badge she was wearing. "Yeah, but this is my old badge, and it says, 'Assistant Manager.' Look at this new one! Solid metal, and engraved, too, not printed! Classy! Dip, want to pin this on for me?"

"Do it, Brobro!" Mabel said, whipping out her phone. "Let me take a photo of the big moment!" She giggled.

"You don't think I will," Dipper said.

"Show me!" Mabel challenged, lining up the picture.

"I can do it," Dipper said.

"Do it! Do it! Do it!" Mabel shot back, her thumb poised.

As Mabel fast-fired several photos, Dipper took the badge, unfastened the pin, and fastened it onto the pocket of Wendy's blazer. "There, see?"

"Uh, dude, it's like upside-down," Soos said, trying and failing to rotate his head 180 degrees.

"Oops," Dipper said.

"'Cause that's the way  _he'll_  be able to read it!" Mabel said. "Hey-O!"

As he was re-pinning the name tag, Dipper thought he understood Mabel's implication. "Mabel, that's—ouch!"

"Dude, did you stick yourself?" Wendy asked.

Dipper reached under the counter and got a tissue to soak up the small drop of blood on the ball of his thumb. "It's nothing."

"First aid emergency!" Mabel yelled. "BRB!" She thundered out.

"Is it still, like, bleeding?" Soos asked, concerned.

"No, it was just a little stick. Uh, Wendy, maybe you better fasten the pin, 'cause I wouldn't want to get a spot of blood on your jacket."

"Got it," Wendy said. "Sorry, man."

"Dude," Soos said, "have you had, like, a tetanus shot?"

"Yes, just before we started high school," Dipper said. "And they're good for ten years. I'm OK, really!"

Mabel came back with a plastic kit from which she took antibiotic ointment and bandages. She used three of the latter on Dipper: One along the back of his thumb, with the sticky part starting at his knuckle and running over his thumbnail to put the absorbent pad against the tip where he'd stuck himself, a second running along the sides of his thumb, and the last wrapped around.

"Oh, come on! It's not like a _major_  wound," Dipper said.

"But you deserve special treatment, 'cause you received it in the line of duty. Duty to LOOOVE!" Mabel bellowed.

Stan walked in from the museum. "What's goin' on?" he asked. "If that Love God guy comes in this year, he's limited to _one_  free refill of his drink! One, remember!"

"Dipper took a stab wound for Wendy!" Mabel announced.

"Good man." Stan yawned. "Soos, it's dead! Want to take the afternoon off?"

Soos checked the time. "Um—well, we got a tour bus scheduled for one, and then another at two-fifteen. Let's stay open that long anyways, and then if there's no more business than this, we'll shut down early. Anyway, that's what I think."

"Eh, you're in charge," Stan said. "Remember, now, I won't be in at all tomorrow, 'cause I'll be supervising the Woodstick check-in—"

Mabel had been repacking the first-aid kit. Sweetly and with eyes so big and imploring that Tripper looked up at her as though making notes, she said, "Hey, Soos, Grunkle Stan, you two are the kindest bosses in the world."

"Uh-oh," Stan said. "Here it comes. Watch out, she's gonna use her cute mind powers on us, Soos!"

Mabel reached down to scratch Tripper's ears. "No, seriously, since we haven't sold anything since before eleven and now it's nearly twelve, why don't you reward your new badge-carrying manager and your cutest saleswoman by giving me and Wendy the rest of the day off? We gotta do some shopping."

"What're you shoppin' for?" Stan asked.

"Woodstick outfits, duh!" Mabel said. "Uh, that duh was for Soos, not you."

"I'll take it!" Soos said, punching the air.

Stan scratched his nose and shrugged. "Meh, OK with me if it is with Soos."

Soos grinned. "Sure, dawgs. Hey, you guys gonna also want the weekend off?"

"Not if you need us, Soos—" Wendy began.

"Nah, it'll be real busy, but you guys love Woodstick so much, take Friday and Saturday off. Melody and Sheila and Lorena have already, like, offered to volunteer. If it gets really, really bad, I'll call on you to maybe take one shift and man the rolling Shack out at the festival, you know? But I think we got it handled so's you young dudes and dudettes can enjoy your music."

"Thanks, man!" Wendy said. Then she high-fived Mabel. "Woo-hoo! Girls goin'  _shoppin'!_  Sweet!"

"Dipper," Mabel said, "you could use some new dress-up clothes, too. Let me pick something stylish out for you?"

"Nothing leather," Dipper said. "Or vinyl."

"Um, how about . . . some more bangin' jeans? And a couple snazz shirts? Maybe an accessory or two, little bit o' bling?"

"What's she even talking about?" Stan asked.

"Stylish clothes and like a bandana or something," Dipper explained.

Stan snorted. " _Bandana_? Kid, go with gold chains!"

"Mabel, don't go overboard," Dipper said. "I'm not sure I trust you."

"I'll ride herd on her," Wendy promised.

Dipper smiled at her. "Well—I guess that would be OK."

Mabel held out her hand. "Two hundred should cover it!"

"Oh, man!" Dipper moaned. "Should've seen  _that_  coming!"

Stan grinned. "Sucker!"

"All right, all right," Dipper said. "I'll to up to my room and get some money—"

"I'll get it!" Mabel snatched up the first-aid kit and ran out, Tripper at her heels. They could hear her and the dog racing up the stairs.

Dipper grimaced. "She'll be back. I've got it hidden where she'll never find—"

Mabel galloped back in, brandishing a handful of twenties. "I took three hundred, just in case of emergencies!" she said. "Broseph, word to the wise—between the mattress and the springs is the worst hiding place in the world. Plus, I saw the magazines, and  _ew!_  Really? When there's so much for free on the Internet?"

"What magazines?" Wendy asked suspiciously.

"Don't tell her," pleaded Dipper.

"Why be embarrassed?" Mabel asked. "It's a normal guy thing! Wendy, my brother has a little secret stash of magazines like  _Writer's Digest, The Writer,_ and  _Editor and Publisher._ "

"It's for my craft," Dipper said.

"Yeah, yeah," Mabel said. "Wendy, get your sweet self changed! We girls are gonna go get MALLED!"

"I'll watch her, Dip." Wendy kissed Dipper's cheek and then went to the Employees Only section and to her locker for her street clothes. She followed Mabel to her room, where they would change.

Soos went to tell Teek he could close up the snack bar. Stan leaned against the counter, his arms folded, shaking his head. "Dipper, I'm surprised at you! And hidin' 'em in such an obvious place, no less! Seriously? Do some of those mags at least have centerfolds?"

"What?" Dipper asked, blinking. "No!"

Tutting, Stan mildly scolded him: "Dip, even your  _porn_  is nerdy!"

"Oh, man," Dipper groaned.


	2. Girls on a Run

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 17, 2016)**

**2: Girls on a Run**

Wendy had not often been in a car with Mabel at the wheel. Fearless though she was, the redhead hung on as they screeched out of the Mystery Shack drive and onto the road. "Always look both ways, Mabes!" she said.

"I have great peripheral vision!" Mabel said. "I can see through time!"

Turning to look back up toward the Shack, Wendy shook her head. "You know, man, sometimes logging trucks come speeding down the slope back there. Wouldn't be too great to have Helen Wheels smooshed up by one of those suckers."

Mabel laughed. "You been hanging with Brobro all summer. You're even starting to talk like him!"

"Not such a bad thing," Wendy said. "You know, I think Soos was about to tell Teek to take the afternoon off. Why didn't you invite him?"

"Same reason I wouldn't bring Tripper!" Mabel said, honking the horn not at anything, just out of high spirits.

Wendy asked, "You mean he'd be, like, sniffin' everybody's butts and humping their legs?"

"Ha! Yeah! Well, no," Mabel admitted. "Even though sometimes I wish that he—"

Wendy warned, "Girl, be careful what you wish for!"

Mabel made the turn toward town and the mall. "No, no, not that he would act like a  _dog_ , but just that Teek would be a little more, you know, demonstrative."

"Keep it private and keep it good for both of you," advised Wendy. "Whoa! Light's turnin'!"

"I can beat it!"

"No, you can't!"

One reason Mr. Pines had selected the used Carino for his kids was that it had a high safety rating. The vivid green car proved that by braking short of the now-red-lighted intersection. With a squeal of rubber on pavement. Cross-traffic was heavy. "Man," Mabel complained, "where'd all these cars come from? This intersection's never this busy!"

"Woodstick," Wendy reminded her, prying her fingers loose from the armrest. "People are already showin' up for it. These guys that are turnin' past us are heading for the campgrounds."

"How'd you know that?" Mabel asked.

"It's my sixth lumberjack sense," Wendy said. "Woo-ooo! Also, if you'll notice, a buncha the cars have tents strapped to their roofs."

"Oh, yeah," Mabel said. "You're like my brother. Very keen powers of observation. Think these are musicians? Boy musicians, maybe? Hunky ones?"

"Nah, most of the successful musicians stay at the motel, and the others live outa their vans for the weekend. They don't camp in tents. Light's green."

"Eh, it was worth a shot," Mabel said. One advantage of so much traffic in and around town was that things moved slow, and they got to Gravity Malls without crashing into another vehicle.

"Remember where we parked," Mabel said.

"Uh, in a regular parking slot about fifty feet from be back entrance?" Wendy asked. "It's Wednesday afternoon, Mabes. The Mall's not all that busy."

"Yeah," Mabel agreed, "but sometimes you gotta make a quick getaway, so always remember where you parked. That's the Mabel tip of the day."

Wednesdays were five-percent-off-for-seniors days at the Mall stores, and lots of oldsters went mall-walking for exercise, so except for the sales staffs, the majority of the people they saw inside were sixty or older. "Should've brought Abuelita," Wendy said. "She coulda fronted for us and bought our junk for us and got us the discount."

"Don't think she'd approve of the kind of outfits I got in mind," Mabel said.

"What are you getting me into?" Wendy asked suspiciously.

They stopped into Deep Pocketz, a clothing store that catered to teen girls with their daddy's credit cards in their clutches. Mabel squealed and held up a garment. "This is my size!" she said. "I gotta try it on!"

Wendy gave the halter top a dubious glance. "That won't cover very much of you," she said.

"It'll give Teek a gorgeous view of Happy Valley, though!" Mabel said.

She ducked into the changing room and came out wearing it. It didn't exactly go with her denim skirt, but it was colorful, what there was of it—two small triangles and cordage. "Whattaya think?" Mabel asked, spreading her arms out and pirouetting. "Will this turn Teek's head?"

"I think it'd 'splode his head!" Wendy said. "C'mon, you gotta leave a little bit to the imagination! Besides, where will you stash your grappling hook?"

Mabel's expression changed from impish glee to dismayed shock. "I never thought of that! Seriously, though, don't you think I can pull this off?"

"You wear  _that_  among the kinda guys in the crowd at Woodstick, they'll pull it off for you," Wendy said. "Nuh-uh, Mabes." When Mabel still looked undecided, Wendy said, "OK, turn around, let me get the full effect." When the younger girl did, Wendy launched the sneak attack: "Mm, well, I guess, if you got your heart set on it, Mabes. Only thing is—never mind."

"What?" Mabel asked.

"Well, it kinda makes your butt look big."

The halter top went back on the rack.

Still, Wendy understood that a girl wants to show off at a big expensive outdoor party like Woodstick, so she helped steer Mabel to some outfits that were kicky and reasonably sexy without putting all the goods out in plain sight. They found two more modest tops, one rainbow-colored and short sleeved that left the midriff bare, the other a fringed buckskin model with a gold star appliqué sort of above and slightly to the left of the left breast, like a sheriff's badge. It was a little longer than the rainbow one, but it would let Mabel's belly button peek out from among the fringes.

Mabel also bought herself an expensive pair of laddered jeans—Wendy observed, "You're payin' more for the holes than for the material"—and, to complement the fringed top, short buckskin-colored culottes. She added a couple of pairs of sandals, one pair made of red, yellow, and blue striped leather thongs, one woven-leather pair brown. Wendy agreed that those would do nicely.

"Now let's do you!" Mabel said.

"I always wear my hippie-girl outfit—"

Mabel thrust her fist in the air. "Then it's time for a change! Mabel has spoken!"

So they searched for Wendy's outfits, too. She found a Gravity Falls tee shirt, the town's logo printed on the front, the material tie-died in pastels, and cut off and hemmed so it stopped a few inches south of her bust. It was tight, but—"If you got 'em," Mabel said, "flaunt 'em!" Another pair of low-riding laddered jeans for her, plus shoes. "Not gonna wear your boots?" Mabel asked.

"Like you say, time for a change," Wendy told her. "Besides, they get hot when you're out in the sun all day. I was thinking some sandals like yours, maybe."

"Uh-huh," Mabel said with an evil grin. "You wanna wear flats so's Dipper will look a little taller next to you!"

"That has nothing to do with it," Wendy said. "But, yeah, nice thought. He's real close to me now."

"How-w-w-w close?" Mabel teased.

"In height!" Wendy said. "So are you and me, for that matter."

"Let's stand back to back and look in the mirror!"

They did, to the bemusement of some of the other shoppers. "Whattaya think?" Wendy asked.

"You've got like two or three inches on me," Mabel said.

"Yeah, but I'm wearing my boots, see?"

"Huh," Mabel murmured. "I never noticed before, but, yeah, I'm getting to be one of the tallest girls in the Senior class. The basketball girls' team still beats me out, but—huh. Feels kinda nice!"

"'Specially since Teek's a little bit taller than you," Wendy said.

Like a sneaky lawyer cross-examining, Mabel asked in a serious tone, "So you wish Dip was taller?"

Wendy gave her a fond look. "You know a lot about a lot of things, Mabel, but let me tell you, when a girl and a guy are the way Dip and me are about each other, size really doesn't matter—" she broke off. "Dip's right, you've got a mean way of tricking somebody into making weird  _double entendre_  statements."

"That's me!" Mabel said with a chortle.

In trying on the new jeans, Wendy noticed something. When she left the fitting room, she said, "These things hug my hips so low that my underwear shows. Guess I'll put them back."

Mabel flourished cash. "No! Way! You buy appropriately low-cut underwear instead!"

They browsed in the underwear department. Mabel held up a pair of brief, tiger-striped panties. "Rrrowrl!"

"Don't think so," Wendy said. "I'm against killing nylon tigers for their hides."

Mabel found the same model in pale solid green, no stripes. "Well . . . ." Wendy said indecisively.

Mabel nudged the older girl. "Come on! Nobody's gonna  _see_ 'em!"

"Yeah, if my dad even found them in my drawer, he'd have an aneurysm," Wendy said. "But . . . yeah, I like the jeans. OK, I guess." They made the purchase.

Then on to Guyz 'N Dudz to shop for Dipper. "What is it with stores that end in z?" Mabel asked.

"Dunno. Guess it's a way of avoiding trademark infringement," Wendy said. "Now, remember, we don't want anything that will embarrass him."

Ho, ho. Mabel found a black V-neck tee shirt with two guitar chords printed in white on the chest: A-minor and E-augmented-G-sharp. "Perfect!" she said.

"Are you sure, dude?" Wendy asked.

"Mabel is always sure about everything! Uh, why?"

"Mabes, that's the opening two chords of 'Stairway to Heaven.'"

Mabel gave her a funny look. "It is? How do you know?"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "I dated Robbie Valentine for, like, a month!" she said. "I got sick of hearing that."

"Huh. Well—Dipper won't wear it around our house, so—"

"Why does that matter?"

Mabel shrugged. "Well, I can't read music, so I thought it was just a neat decoration. Has Dip ever played 'Stairway to Heaven' for you?"

"That would be a no," Wendy said.

"Yeah, well, he can't. Not musically, I mean, he's OK, not great, but he's  _capable_  of playing it. But this one time when he started it at home, Dad ran upstairs and yelled at him and told him to stop it and never play it again."

"Why?" Wendy asked.

Mabel rolled her eyes. "You'd have to ask Dad. I don't know. It brings back bad memories for him. From college. He won't talk about it. But I think Dip would like the shirt."

Wendy stepped back and looked at it. "Well . . . I guess other songs have those chords in 'em, too. And Dip doesn't have bad memories of it, does he?"

"Except for Dad's getting all psycho that once? Not that I know of."

"OK, get it for him, then."

So they got it for him, along with a dusky deep-green vest to wear over it, unbuttoned, and a green plaid neckerchief for him to wear under it—"Put your brand on him!" Mabel said. And jeans.  _Tight_  jeans, with rips at the knee.

"I think these are a little  _too_  tight," Wendy said.

"They're stretch denim!" Mabel said. "Go for it! Make my Bro strut his stuff!"

And then footwear.

"Boots?" Wendy asked. "For real?"

"Ankle boots!" Mabel said, holding up a black pair with chrome fastenings. "You in flats, him in boots, you guys will meet in the middle! Perfect! And they're light enough so's even Dip can dance in them!"

"You're sure you know his size?"

"Yeppers! I go shoe shopping with him all the time."

"Well, OK."

* * *

After about four hours of shopping, the girls loaded up the trunk of Helen Wheels. They were out of money, but richer by several outfits. And they had just about enough change left over to buy a couple of Freezie Slush drinks, a suicide for Mabel, a cherry cola for Wendy.

There was only one touchy moment on the way back to the Shack, when Mabel got a brief bout of brain freeze, but somehow they made it over the short bridge without scraping the rails. They had to go slowly—the incoming tide of cars for Woodstick was even heavier, and they even got behind a white-and-green VW bus rolling along at fifteen miles per hour, with a mattress strapped to the roof and, sitting on the mattress, a guy in a bag hat, shorts, and sandals, strumming on an acoustic guitar.

"That guy always comes to the festival," Wendy said. "Never seen him perform, though."

"Probably one of those posers who uses the guitar to pick up girls," Mabel said.

They parked in the Shack lot—the sign down next to the road had a board hanging on the hooks beneath it that said, CLOSED FOR WOODSTICK FREE PARKING FOR THE FESTIVAL—and went inside through the family entrance, arms full of bags.

"Let's go up to the attic bathroom!" Mabel said. "More room, and we can check ourselves out in the big mirror on the back of the door!"

Dipper heard them and met them at the top of the stairs. "I see you found some stuff," he said.

"Here, we'll give you your outfit," Mabel told him. They went into the attic bedroom and sorted out the swag. Dipper held the clothes up. "Well—these aren't too bad. Ankle boots, though? Seriously?"

"Just try everything on, Brobro!" Mabel said. "Including the boots! We'll meet you in five minutes!"

The attic bathroom, having been converted from an observatory room that Ford had planned but never finished back when the Shack was first built as his home, was spacious. Mabel got into the rainbow top outfit, while Wendy put on her Gravity Falls tee, jeans, and sandals. She turned, looking in the mirror. "These jeans really ride low," she said.

"They're decent!" Mabel said. "Now we need accessories! Crowns of flowers! Yes! I got tons of silk flowers, I'll run 'em up! What are you staring at, your butt's not too big!"

"Just wanted to see if my heart shows. It doesn't," Wendy said.

"Your what with the which now?" Mabel asked, furrowing her brow.

"Oh, Dip noticed I got like a little birthmark or freckle or some biz in the shape of a tiny Valentine heart on my butt—"

Mabel put her hands to her cheeks, her expression enthralled. "No! Way!"

"Relax, we weren't _doin'_  anything! Anyways, it's low enough so it doesn't show."

"Show me!" Mabel insisted.

Grimacing, Wendy said, "Mabes, that sounds kinda pervy—"

"Come on!"

With a sigh, Wendy pushed the jeans waistband down about two inches. "There, see it?"

"Yeah! That is so cute! But dang it, you couldn't let your jeans swag that low. I mean, I've heard of whale tails, but in Gravity Falls showing that much hip would get you busted, I bet!"

Wendy tugged the jeans back up. "I don't mean to let it show."

"So? Dish, how did Dipper notice it?"

Wendy shook her head. "Never mind. We kept our clothes on, and that's all you need to know. It's personal, Mabes, OK?"

"OK," Mabel said, sounding disappointed.

However, this was a bit of a mystery . . . and she  _was_ , after all, one-half of the Mystery Twins.

Mentally she opened a case file. She'd get to the (heh, heh) bottom of this. . . .

 


	3. Truth or Don't

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 17, 2016)**

**3: Truth or Don't**

Wendy went home around six to cook for her dad and brothers, but she and Dipper made a date for eight for dinner on their own. When Dipper didn't show up at the table with everyone else at seven, Mabel used Tripper to track him down—fairly easily, because he was up in his room. "What's wrong, Brobro?" Mabel asked. "Are you feeling sick? Should we take you to the vet?"

"I'm fine," Dipper said, looking up from his Journal, in which he was winding up the entries about the haunting at Stan's lodge hall. "Just not hungry, that's all."

Mabel sat on the foot of the bed, and Tripper leaped up and crept to the pillow, where he apparently started to read the Journal. "You're barely in it," Dipper murmured to him, but he gave Tripper a belly rub, something the dog prized above soup bones.

"You have to eat something," Mabel urged.

"OK, I'm going out with Wen when she gets back," Dipper said. "We're going to go out somewhere for dinner."

"I knew it!" Mabel said, bouncing so much that Dipper put his Journal and his pen away. "I knew it, I knew it! OK, Broseph, no kidding around, now: Have you and Wendy you-know?"

"Huh?" he asked. "Do you mean what I think you mean?"

She giggled. "I think you know what you think I think I mean!"

"None of your business," he said. "I don't ask about you and Teek, do I?"

"Yeah, why don't you take an interest, Dip?" Mabel asked. She teased Tripper by flicking his wagging tail. The dog gave her a reproachful I-don't-do-that-to-you sort of look. "What do you want to know?"

"About what you and Teek get up to? Nothing," Dipper said. "That's your business, just like what Wendy and I do is ours."

"Come on," she whined. "Inquiring minds want to know!"

"Then go read a supermarket tabloid," Dipper said, moving Tripper so he could sit on the edge of his bed. "Sex and scandal enough in them for you."

"Aw."

She left him alone, and Dipper briefly felt as satisfied as Baron von Melas had in June 1799 when he saw Napoleon's forces broken and in retreat. "Well," the Baron said, "I guess that's one time another general has beaten the famous Napoleon!" Unfortunately for the Austrian Baron, the French received reinforcements, rallied, and completely routed Melas's forces from the field, making Napoleon's victory complete and also allowing French chefs to create and name Chicken Marengo, a delicious semi-stew.

In other words, Dipper's position, apparently victorious, was actually untenable.

As he discovered when Wendy came in at 8:03 and said, "Conditions are acceptable at Casa Catastrophe, Dip! Where do we want to eat?"

"How about the Club?" Dipper asked. "My ready cash reserve is so nearly gone, I might as well blow the rest!"

"You're on," Wendy said. "Come on, you won't need a coat. It's a warm night."

"Yeah, but they require a sports jacket and tie for guys," Dipper said. "I'll just be a minute."

The Club—or Le Club to the snootier residents of the Valley—was fairly relaxed in its dress code. A dude could wear sneakers and jeans, as long as he also wore a tie and sports jacket. Dipper put on a pale blue button-up shirt and a dark-blue tie and donned his charcoal gray sports jacket. He paused to brush his hair—he was going to need a haircut soon—arranging it so his birthmark didn't show.

"Nice," Wendy said when he came downstairs. "OK, let's go paint the town green."

"Red," Dipper said.

"Not my color, Dip!" she said.

They got into Wendy's car, the Green Machine, and smooched. Then Wendy backed out and left the parking lot, heading toward town.

"Why so quiet?" Wendy asked.

"Aw, Mabel's bugging me," Dipper said. "She wants to know all the details about you and me. Like are we sleeping together."

Wendy tutted. "This isn't like a race between you and her, is it? First one to jump into the sack with their significant other wins?"

"No!" Dipper said. "At least I hope she doesn't think so. I've told her and told her that you and I made each other a promise not to, you know, go all the way before we're married. We haven't broken it yet."

"Kinda bent it now and then," Wendy said with a chuckle.

"Ah-hah!" The exclamation from the back seat nearly caused Wendy to run off onto the shoulder.

"Mabel!" both Dipper and Wendy exclaimed in unison. Then Dipper asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Listening with both my ears!" Mabel said. Then to Wendy, she added, "Broseph wouldn't talk, so I had to resort to undercover tactics, like Duck-Tective when he had himself painted in the Mystery of the Missing Mallards case. I snuck out the back way and got in the car while you and Dip were inside the Shack."

"Is Tripper with you?" Dipper asked. "Because Wendy and I are going to a restaurant!"

"He chose to stay home," Mabel said primly. "Did I hear you say we're eating at The Club? Yum! Love it."

"Did you bring money?" Dipper asked. "Because we're going Dutch!"

"What does that even mean?" Mabel asked.

"Means you eat, you pay," Wendy said.

"Pfft! I already had dinner, so I'll just get an appetizer and a drink."

"You always say that," Dipper complained.

Mabel continued as if Dipper hadn't spoken: "I didn't bring my purse, though, 'cause I thought maybe you two were gonna shack up—"

"You know what _that_  means, but you never heard of going Dutch?" Wendy asked. "Come on, I know you've heard Stan talk more than that!"

"What I'm saying," Mabel said in a reasonable tone, "is that you're gonna have to front me the money. I'm good for it."

"This time I want an IOU," Dipper grumbled.

However, as he and Wendy both knew, they were stuck with Mabel. If they turned around and dumped her back at the Shack, they'd never hear the end of it.

The upshot of it all was that the three of them had dinner at The Club—Wendy and Dipper had salads but shared a steak and baked potato, and Mabel did order an appetizer, black truffle burrata, but then she also wanted a petite steak with crisped Brussels sprouts and a butternut squash mash. All in all, it left them full and Dipper's wallet just about flat.

"Let's go somewhere!" Mabel said after dinner. "The night is young!"

"It's nine-thirty," Dipper pointed out.

"The night is young for its age!" Mabel corrected. "Come on, let's go somewhere so we can talk."

"About sex?" Wendy guessed.

"Sure, if that's what you're interested in," Mabel said. "Where can we go that's private? Let's go up to Lookout Point!"

"Three in a car?" Dipper asked. "Even Durland would bust us for that!"

"Dad has a hunting cabin he rents out in the fall," Wendy said.

"Wendy!" Dipper exclaimed.

"Dude, we may as well get this done with. I got a master key, 'cause I usually wind up having to clean it up after somebody uses it. It's not too far."

So she drove them to a hilltop where a very small log cabin hugged the summit. "It's not fancy," Wendy warned as they got out of the Dodge Dart. "No running water, really, just a well with a hand-pump sink. And no bathroom, just an outhouse."

"Like a portable potty?" Mabel asked.

"Like a permanent portable potty," Wendy said. "If you don't absolutely have to go, my advice is to hold it."

Wendy had Dipper use his phone flashlight app to let her see the lock, and she clicked it with the key before pulling the door open on squeaky hinges. "Smells dusty," Mabel said, going in and flapping her hands on the wall.

"That's 'cause it is," Wendy said. "Hasn't been cleaned since last January, right after cougar season ended. Feeling for the light switch? There's not one. Hang on, I'll fix it."

Again, Dipper's phone flashlight came in handy. A box of matches and a couple of candle stubs were on the mantle over the fireplace, and Wendy lit these. The furniture was primitive: wooden chairs, a small table, in one corner the kitchen, consisting of a counter with the hand-pump sink and a propane stove top, no oven. "It's more comfortable to sit on the bearskin rug than in the chairs," Wendy said. She set both candles down on the hearth. "I could scare up the kerosene lamp, but these ought to do."

"I'm good with the candles," Mabel said. "Kinda romantic."

"Would be if  _you_  weren't along," Dipper said.

"OK, OK, OK!" Mabel said. "Let's get to the point. Truth or Dare!"

"No," Wendy said. "We won't play that one. Instead, you can ask us questions, we'll answer them or we won't. Don't get crude, and don't ever say you don't believe us, or the game's over and we go right back home."

"Aw," Mabel said.

"And," Dipper added, "for every question that you ask and we answer, you have to answer the same question yourself!"

"Man, that really makes it hard," Mabel said. "OK, first of all, you guys haven't, you know, gone all the way? I mean, Teek and I haven't."

"We haven't, either," Wendy said. "Like you heard eavesdropping, Dip and I gave each other a pledge. We've kept it. We intend to keep it until, well, until we make everything official."

"Teek and I haven't promised each other, but he would take the pledge if I asked him," Mabel said. "Do you think I should?"

"I do," Dipper told her. "But you'll do what you want anyway."

"Good point. OK—have you guys been naked together?"

"You  _saw_  us skinny-dipping," Dipper reminded her. "When you were doing the same thing, if you remember!"

"Yeah, but that wasn't sexy at all, really. Just swimming and no touching or anything. I mean in more intimate indoor situations," Mabel said. "Teek and me, um. Kinda. Not completely. Semi, you might say."

Wendy said, "Dip and I have been naked together, but we haven't been  _intimate_  that way. Dip and I went hot-tubbing—"

Mabel bounced up onto her knees. "No! Freakin'! Way! I wanna do that too!"

"Hold your horses," Dipper said. "It was in a hot spring way out at Ghost Falls."

"And there've been one or two other times, never for very long at a time and never with any physical making-out. And we didn't look close enough so Dipper could notice the heart on my butt that way," Wendy said.

"Wait, you  _told_  her?" Dipper asked.

"Mabes and I were trying on clothes," Wendy said.

"It's real cute! What is it, a birthmark?" asked Mabel.

"Think so," Dipper said. "It's too pink to be a freckle."

Mabel tilted her head in her puppy-like way. "Wait, now. How'd you even see it if you two weren't—"

Dipper sighed. "First I knew about it was when Bill Cipher told me she had it."

Mabel's eyes nearly glowed in the candle glow as they widened in shock. "Wendy! You've been letting that triangle look at your—"

"No," Wendy said. "That's just Cipher bein' a peeping Tom. He can look out into the real world from the Mindscape. Guess he spies on us. Probably on you, too!"

"That voyageur!" Mabel said.

"I think the term is 'voyeur,'" Dipper told her. "Yours is a guy in a canoe. Anyhow, he mentioned it to me and I blurted it out when I came out of the Mindscape and Wendy had me check, and there it was. It's so small that it would be hard to notice if you didn't know something was there. But she wasn't naked when I checked it!"

"It's really very cute, Wendy," Mabel said. "Better than Dipper's birthmark!"

"Yeah, thanks. If it was a little higher up, my new jeans would show it," Wendy said.

Dipper blinked. "Your new jeans?"

"For Woodstick. Wait'll you see," Wendy told him.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"OK." Mabel took a deep breath. "This is a difficult one. Have you two, um, how do I put this? Made each other feel really good?" It was hard to tell in the candle light, but she might have been blushing. "Because I've made Teek feel really good. Um, you know, I guess you'd say third-base kinda stuff. But I've never quite got there myself."

Dipper sighed. "Let me answer. OK, nobody is to know about this, Mabel. Not Teek, not your friends, not Tripper, not Waddles, not anybody. When Wendy and I are just touching—"

"Yeah, you can talk mentally," Mabel said. "I know that."

"More than that," Wendy said. "We can feel and then build up each other's feelings. Thinking about physical stuff without doing it, getting each other real excited and like you say, feeling good. We call it releasing tension. We do that now and then. But it doesn't count, 'cause it's mental making out, not physical."

"Oh, wow," Mabel said. "You guys are so lucky! Listen, I want to know how—"

"Mabel," Wendy said firmly, "you and I will have a talk about guy and girl communication. See, Dip and I have that locked up because of our mental connection. But you and your guy—well, you each have to know what the other one most likes, and I'll just leave it there for now. Enough questions. Game over."

"Aww," Mabel moaned.

"Come on," Wendy said in a teasing voice. "Woodstick's ahead! Great music, good friends—"

"Way overpriced food," Dipper added.

"Let it go for tonight, OK, Mabes?" Wendy said. "I promise, tomorrow you and I will make some alone time for a girl-to-girl about this stuff. And I'll answer anything, 'cept I won't go into private stuff between me and Dipper. Come on, let me put out these candles and then we'll go back home. And on Friday—Woodstick, man!"


	4. Apologies

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 18, 2016)**

**4: Apologies**

On Thursday morning, Wendy's and Dipper's routine got pre-empted by an emergency. "It, like, won't even start," Soos told Wendy when she arrived before seven o'clock, dressed for the run. Soos stood in the parking lot beside the tram, the hood open and the engine exposed. "I've tried all the normal stuff, but it's, like, got me stumped."

"Let me get on my coveralls," Wendy said. "Sorry, Dip."

"That's OK," Dipper said. "The Shack's gonna need the tram over this weekend."

Soos wiped his face with a bandana, leaving a streak of grease across his cheeks. "Yeah, 'cause we tell people we have free transportation to Woodstick, and if I can't drive the tram, I don't know what we'll do. I could ferry 'em one at a time in the golf cart—"

"Not practical." Wendy changed, Dipper trade his running gear for old clothes, and he served as nurse to Wendy's engine surgeon. "It's sure seized up," she said. "Soos, man, I've been tellin' you, this old four-cylinder's due for the junkyard. What you need is, like, a turbo-charged version."

"Can you put one in?" Soos asked.

"Oh, yeah, plenty of room in there, and with Dip's help, but I can't do that and manage the gift shop too."

Soos bit his lip. "This calls for a command decision!" he said. "Uh, so what should I decide?"

"Go with the new engine," Dipper advised. "Wendy, where would we get one?"

"There's the auto graveyard, there's Wheeler's, maybe even Bud Gleeful might have one he'd sell you. I'll start calling around."

That took some time and some knowledge of when someone was on duty at the various places. By eight-fifteen, she said, "We're in luck. Found a 2012 Ford Focus turbo four-cylinder. It'll fit, and it's from a wreck that totaled the frame but didn't hurt the power train or engine. Downside, three hundred and fifty bucks. Upside, Wheeler's got it and he can send the tow truck out to haul it in to the shop and I can go work on it there."

"Deal!" Soos said. "Whoo, three hundred and fifty! I was sure it was gonna be like a thousand! Uh—how much for doin' the job, Wendy?"

"You're paying me already," Wendy pointed out. "I'll just be working there instead of here. Dip, you're off the hook, Steve or one of the guys will help me out. Let me call and set it up."

By nine, she was in town, in the garage, and at work, the mechanics at Wheeler's helping her. "Good thing it's a drop-in job," she said. "Hey, Steve, you want the old engine in trade? Could be rebuilt. Not worth much even then, but you could resell it for maybe a couple hundred."

He inspected it. "Yeah, needs work. Tell you what, I could knock a hundred off the new one. I'm charging you fifty for use of the bay, so that'll save Soos fifty on the junker engine. I'm surprised the old one lasted this long, hard as they work that tram."

"Yeah, well, top speed was about fifteen miles per," Wendy said, wiping her hands as they surveyed the engine, hanging loose from a winch.

It turned out to be a relatively simple job, after all, and took about six hours from beginning to crank-her-up-and-see-if-she-explodes. She didn't. "Tell you what," Wendy said, "I'm gonna drive it back to the Shack. Without the cars, it'll have a little more speed, and what with the traffic, I won't need that much."

So right around four o'clock, she chugged it in. Soos, attired as Mr. Mystery, came out onto the porch and cheered. "It's, like, done?" he asked.

Wendy swung out of the cab. "Yep, and I traded out the old engine. Got a hundred bucks for it, fifty went for bay rental, and here's your change back."

Soos raised his hands, palms out. "That's yours, Wendy! It's worth it! How does it run?"

"Lot better than it did," Wendy said. "I got up to thirty in one stretch. This'll be at least as good as the original, and probably better because it's got more power. It'll get you through the summer OK, anyhow."

"Oh, man, I'd hug you, but you're, like, covered in grease."

"Yeah, crawlin' around under and inside a vehicle will do that," Wendy said. "Hook up the tram cars and take it out with some tourists just to see how it does. Call Dip if it stalls out or acts up, but I think you're good. I'm gonna go boil myself."

She went in through the family entrance and up to the second floor for her hot shower, which involved not only shampoo and ordinary soap, but powdered soap, the kind with volcanic pumice that scrubs oil out of pores. Her hair was well on its way to her old hip-length style—just another foot or so—and knowing it would take a long time to dry, she did the best she could with it, tying it back in a kind of ponytail. Then, getting into her flannel shirt and her jeans, without changing to her work clothes, she went to check on how the day was going.

"Wendy!" Mabel yelled from behind the cash register. "You're back!"

"Been busy, dorks?" she asked with a grin.

Dipper, in his smaller version of the Mr. Mystery suit, lit up. "It's been kinda hectic," he said. "Hey, Soos is real happy. He just took about nineteen tourists out on the Mystery Trail!"

Another couple of dozen of them had just spilled out of the museum, where Dipper was acting the part of tour guide, and about half that many had already been in the shop, so Wendy pitched in, worked the floor, and hawked merch. Dipper took the other register, and between them, he and Mabel moved the lines along. In half an hour, the last tourist left—but by then the tram was chugging back toward the Shack with nineteen more, and a bus eased into the lot outside. "Been like this all day?" Wendy asked.

"Yeah," Dipper said. "Kind of second-tier busy, not busy busy. Profitable, though."

"Well, the super-busy will come tomorrow," Wendy said. "Thank God we'll be off at Woodstick! Hey, I've stashed my festival outfits here, so Dad won't see me all swagged out and tell me I can't go out dressed like that. What time are we heading over?"

"The acts start at eleven," Dipper said. "So I thought, like, ten? We can browse Merchants' Row. Hey, guess what? Soos gave us four comps again!"

"That comes in handy," Wendy said with a grin. Grunkle Stan sold three levels of admission: General, or expensive, Designated, or super-expensive, and VIP, or you-can't-afford-it.

The comps were only General Admission, but that suited Dipper. The venue was kind of a natural amphitheater, and the acoustics were good even if you sat on a blanket spread on the hillside, with the added advantage that he'd be sprawled back on the grass next to his girlfriend.

Another plus was that Dan Corduroy always bought a VIP ticket, which let him sit right up at the stage's edge. Sev'ral Timez was playing again this year, and Dan wouldn't miss being front and center for them, his favorite group of all times. And when their sets were done, he'd probably take them and their manager, Tad Strange, out to eat someplace. He was that big a fan. Anyway, Dan wouldn't be likely to catch sight of them away off on the hillside, lost in the crowd.

At six on Wednesday evening, with the last tourist out the door with her purchases, Wendy turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and said, "OK, tonight Dad's takin' the boys up to Aunt Sallie's for the weekend—"

"They're gonna miss Woodstick?" Mabel asked, looking stricken.

Wendy snorted. "Well, yeah, 'cause they don't like any kind of music group that plays there! And when Dad left them at home last time, they near about ruined his reciprocal saw, cutting rocks with it. So they're gonna stay on Sallie's farm, letting Dad and me go to Woodstick. Anyway, all the guys are eating with Sallie tonight, so I'm off kitchen duty. Dip, I'm gonna have some girl talk with Mabel. We'll get something to eat, too. You're not invited, OK?"

He shrugged. "It's OK as long as you and I go out for a soda or something after it's over."

"Good deal," she said.

The girls went to the pizza place, but took the food to Circle Park. Wendy had guessed they'd have it to themselves, with Woodstick way across town, and she was right. She could tell that Mabel was nervous. However, they finished their all-veggie-except-for-pepperoni pizza before Wendy said, "OK, Mabes, now let's talk about boundaries."

"I know, I know, I shouldn't have eavesdropped," Mabel said, putting her head down on the pizza box. "I'm sorry."

"That's just part of it," Wendy said. "Seriously, Mabel, I've been where you are. All weirded out and hormonal and junk and not understanding half of it. But really, what's up? Dipper and I both told you already that we're not having sex and we won't until we're married. Don't you believe us?"

"Well, yeahhhh," Mabel said, dragging the word out. "Except—um."

"What?" Wendy said. "Look, I'm not your mom, I'm your friend, and I'm not gonna yell at you or anything. But tell me straight up, what's bothering you?"

"I don't knowwww," she moaned. "It's like I'm not myself. I never know what to do anymore. Used to be, I'd just go ahead and do it, but now I'm getting like Dipper."

"How?" Wendy asked. "Sit up and look at me. It's hard to hear you when you're talking into the table."

Straightening up on the bench, Mabel took a deep breath. "Well—you know how Dipper is. He gets all worried and paranoid and junk,  _oh, I hope Wendy really loves me, oh, I'm not worthy, oh it's getting too much for me."_

Wendy had to laugh. Mabel's impression was pretty good. "That's just Dip being Dip!" she said.

"Yeah, but—well, when we're here in Gravity Falls, when he gets all knotted up and tense and grumpy, and then he goes on a date with you, he comes back so—relaxed. So happy. I mean, something's brought him out of his depression or whatever! I thought it must be you. I mean, it's just hard for me to believe that you two aren't, you know—"

"Blowing off steam?" Wendy asked.

"I guess that's one way of putting it," Mabel said, snickering. "So—yeah, I believe you, really, but—well, like I say, he goes out with you for an evening, and then for days after, he's all relaxed, humming and joking and smiling. See what I mean?"

"I guess I do," Wendy said. "It's those mental make-out sessions, though. Nothing physical. Well, we do hold hands and kiss during them, but we don't strip down or anything."

"And just the telepathy stuff, you know—does the trick for, um, both of you?"

"Oh, yeah," Wendy said. "But as far as that goes—sometimes also Dip gives me a foot massage."

"He's good at that," Mabel admitted.

Wendy propped her chin on her hand. "Mm, yeah, but what happens with me, well, I guess I have sensitive feet, but—what I'm trying to say is, _that_  does the trick for me most of the time!"

Mabel blinked at her. "You're kidding."

"Nope. I looked it up. Happens with some girls, but a minority. I guess it doesn't with you?"

Mabel shook her head. "All it does is relax my feet. It feels nice, but it doesn't make me all, you know. But I guess that's a good thing. I mean, if  _that_  happened with my brother, if it made me, um, you know, I'd be doing something dirty!"

After a few moments of silence, Wendy urged, "So you and Teek—"

"Um, you know, fool around. Like I said, you know, sort of, um, petting and touching, but not, um, the big step, you know?"

"Mm-hmm. And what you two do together doesn't do the trick for you."

Mabel shook her head, turning bright red. "This is so embarrassing. I mean, I know it  _can_  happen, I can get there—'cause I've made it happen myself—but with Teek, well, um."

"Look, Mabel," Wendy said, "me and Dipper, we know what each other likes because we can  _feel_  what each other feels. But you don't have the thought-transfer thing, and believe me, you do  _not_ want to try to get it, 'cause it nearly killed us. But you  _can_ talk it out with Teek. When things get, you know, sort of heated. You can just tell him what you like."

"I . . . don't know if I can," Mabel admitted. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"You love him?"

"Yes. I do."

"He loves you, too?"

Mabel took a deep breath. "He says so. Yeah, I believe him. He does."

"There you are. Look, from all you say, you're probably not ready for anything more than you've got going right now. Is Teek unhappy?"

"No." Mabel smiled. "He just beams when he sees me every day. It's nice."

"So let things coast for now. Next summer you'll be a year older and so will he. Let it mature. It's not a race. You and Dipper aren't in competition to see which one loses their, um, innocence first."

Mabel thought about that. "OK. That's kind of a relief in a way, you know? Uh, so what do I need to do now?"

"Apologize to Dipper," Wendy said. "You've been pushing him real hard lately—taking his money, asking him uncomfortable questions and all."

Mabel squirmed. "Well—yeah, but he—he's Dipper."

"And since he is, he won't tell you when you hurt his feelings 'cause he doesn't want to hurt  _yours_ ," Wendy said. "But he's been patient with you, and he doesn't even complain to me about your being thoughtless sometimes. Well—not much."

"Yeah, you're right," Mabel said softly. "I know I take advantage, and I  _could_  let him drive Helen Wheels more, and I should've let him get his money instead of getting it myself and then teasing him about his dorky writer's magazines. But come on, hiding them under his mattress!"

"Because he knew you'd tease him about them," Wendy said gently.

"Oh, my gosh," Mabel whispered. "You're right. I  _have_  been kind of a jerky-jerk, haven't I?"

"Little bit," Wendy said. "I'm not saying don't be Mabel. Dipper loves you the way you are, you know? But when you get so enthusiastic, you just take sometimes and you forget to give. I'm not saying try to be something you're not, but—well, think a little bit before you take advantage."

"I will," Mabel said.

* * *

 

They were back at the Shack by eight, and Mabel went right up to Dipper, who was sitting in the parlor watching TV, and said, "Brobro, I just wanted to say that I've been too bratty and pushy and I've upset you and embarrassed you, and I'm so sorry." Her chin trembled a little, and her smile was uncertain, not at all a Mabel smile.

Dipper stood up and opened his arms. "Apology accepted. How about a sibling hug?" he asked.

There was her grin, like the sun rising. "You got it!"

"Do the pats," Wendy said. "You gotta do the pats!"

Pat. Pat.

"OK," Mabel said, still hugging Dipper. "First, I'm gonna pay you back for the part of your money I spent on myself. I've got most of my pay from the summer up in my room—don't even try, you'll never find it, ha!—and I'll give you the hundred and twenty tomorrow before we all go to Woodstick."

"Sis, I don't begrudge that—"

"Let me," Mabel said, stepping back and taking both his hands in hers. "Please."

"OK, sure," he said, smiling.

"And second, I'm not gonna ask you and Wendy anything about your private stuff anymore. I'm really sorry about doing that. It—well, you know, I'm always the confident one, ha-ha, and you're the awkward and tongue-tied one, and—um, really, it's—" She took a long breath and then almost whispered, "It's the other way around right now. I'm all confused about myself and my feelings and what I should and shouldn't do and all. But Wendy is gonna be there for me, so—when I have questions, you know, I'll talk to her. And I won't eavesdrop in the car again. I promise."

Dipper noticed the "in the car" qualification, but he decided that Mabel had made some concessions. "That's fine," he said. "But hey, if you have secrets or problems that you  _do_  want to tell me—I'm always your brother, Mabel. I won't judge you."

"Thanks." She squeezed his hands and smiled. "I feel better. Now you two crazy kids go out and have fun, but don't stay out too late—'cause starting tomorrow, we're gonna rock Woodstick!"


	5. Unwanted Errands

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 18, 2016)**

**5: Unwanted Errands**

"Hold on, knuckleheads!" Stan had caught Wendy and Dipper just as they were leaving. "You ain't goin' anywhere until you do something for me."

Dipper started to say, "But—"

"No buts except yours in the Shack, pronto!" Stan coughed. "Please."

They looked at each other, sighed ruefully, and went back into the gift shop. "What is it, Grunkle Stan?" asked Mabel, who also looked a bit ticked-off.

"It's these!" Stan said, holding up a sheaf of printed posters. "Soos had one job to do with 'em, and wouldn't you know it, he blew it."

Dipper took the top paper. "Posters for Woodstick?" he asked.

"Yeah. Proofread 'em and see if you can spot the teeny tiny flaw," Stan said.

It took him only a glance. "This is weird," he said. The poster showed a gold electric guitar, probably representing Bite My Gold, a punk-ish band that now had only two of its original five members, both of them wearing toupees, and survived by playing gigs like this one. The name "Woodstick" ran diagonally next to the guitar, in letters meant to resemble logs. So far, so good.

But then—Dipper read the copy: "This is info on how to buy tickets and the music et cetera?"

"It's just a place-keeper, kid," Stan said. "Soos was s'posed to have the copier store patch in the real copy, but he forgot that step. These here are corrected versions." He held up a poster that had a list of musical acts: Five Slices of Cold Mouse Pizza, Scarves Indoors, the Mustache Brothers, Clam, Robbie V and the Tombstones, and others. Stan waved it. "Now, there's sixty of these babies stuck up all over town—"

"No," Dipper groaned. "You don't mean we have to go and replace them—"

"Ha! See, that's why you're the brains of the outfit!" Stan said.

"Hey!" Mabel objected. She had fashioned the bad poster into a hat.

"C'mon," Stan coaxed. "I got a list of where every one of these things is stuck. Dipper, you take twenty, Wendy, you take twenty, and Mabel and I will take twenty, and we can get 'em replaced in less than an hour."

"What's in it for us?" Wendy asked.

"Oy! Where's the gratitude?" Stan asked. However, he was prepared, because he pulled out four green tickets. "Backstage passes," he said.

"Huh," Mabel said. "That don't impress me much. I go backstage anyway."

Stan fluttered them enticingly. "Yeah, but these'll keep the guards off your case. Also I got a whole box of free-sample merch from the bands—.mp dealies, autographed photos, even some CDs and VDs—"

Dipper raised a finger. "Um—that would be  _DVDs_ ," he corrected.

Stan blinked. "Oh. Huh. Yeah, that makes sense, I guess. I wondered why the musicians were selling their—never mind. Anywho, from the box you guys can take, like one item each."

"Twelve each!" Mabel said.

"Two!"

"Fifteen!"

"OK, three, but that's—"

"Six! Next time it's twenty!"

"Six, six, OK, six," Stan said. He beamed. "Sweetie, I'm proud of you! OK, Dip, you drive that neon green heap of Mabel's—"

"Actually, it's our car, not hers," Dipper said.

"All the better. You drive that an' hit the area right around the fairgrounds, OK? Wendy, you get the west side of town, and Mabel and I will take my car and hit the east side. First one back to the Shack gets ten bucks!"

"He's serious, dude!" Wendy said. "Let's go!"

"Come on, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel grabbed the stack of posters he was carrying and dragged him outside. "Aghh!"

Wendy had just peeled out in the Green Machine, and Dipper already had started the engine of Helen Wheels. Mabel all but shoved Stan into the Stanleymobile, hopped in herself, and then they were off, too.

It really wasn't that hard a task. Stan had a list of all the places that Soos had put the posters—"Wow, organized! Did my brobro teach you how to do that?" Mabel asked.

"Gimme a break," he said, grimacing. "No. It's just that with Soos you gotta lay everything out, 'cause he gets to thinking of something else and forgets what he's supposed to be doin'. Like last week, I heard him say when he was leading a bunch of tourists out on the trail, 'You guys are gonna see some wonders of nature! Like do you ever wonder what a time machine would look like? I bet it'd be a tape measure, dawgs! Oh, look, a squirrel.'"

"That's Soos!" Mabel said. "Hah. Squirrels! He saw Tripper chasing a squirrel not long ago."

"What happened?"

"Soos got distracted from what he was doing, but he caught the squirrel."

"The dog did?"

"No, Soos made a flying tackle. He let the Gnomes take the squirrel—they don't eat them, they make pets out of them."

"No squirrels were harmed, huh? Good for Soos," Stan said. "OK, first we go to the Welcome to Gravity Falls sign."

They replaced that one, then moved on into town—the barbershop window, the public bulletin board near City Hall, and Yumberjacks—except there a teen guy who'd just parked in the lot saw them and came over. "Yo, guys, whatcha doin'?

"Hi, Handsome!" Mabel said. "We're taking down posters with a typo on them and putting up the right ones. See?" She held up the old one.

"Whoa!" the guy said. "Awesome sauce! Can I have the old one?"

"Knock yourself out," Mabel said, handing him the old poster.

The kid turned and waved it over his head at a girl who'd just climbed out of the passenger side of his car. "Yo, look, Lita! I just scored a misprinted poster!"

"Uh-huh," the girl said. "Joey, I'm starving. Let's go get our burgers!"

Joey called back to Mabel, "Thanks, kid." Then, walking toward Lita, he said, "I can probably sell this for like fifty bucks on WheeBay!"

Stan, who'd been hammering tacks into the replacement poster, stopped and put his hand over his heart. "Whoa, whoa, my life is flashin' before my ears here! Did I hear that kid say, 'fifty bucks'?"

"He called me a kid," Mabel said, sounding grumpy. "Hah. I bet he's not more than a year older than I am!"

"F-fi-fif-fifty," Stan said. "OK, Pumpkin, no more feebies! Take good care of the old posters we're removing. Don't let anybody get his hands on 'em, OK?"

Mabel blinked. "Sure, but—"

"Let's see, fifty-nine misprints at fifty per—that's $2,950.00! And the printin' only cost me ten bucks! Let's go before other jerks get the idea these things are valuable! Get your phone out and tell Dip and Wendy to save the old ones. Save the old ones!"

* * *

They couldn't save them all, because somebody had already torn down another three posters, but they came away with fifty-six. Back at the Shack, Stan rubbed his hands together. "Never mind! I can print up another fifty! OK, twenty bucks to each of you for another half hour's work!"

The work consisted of using fine-tipped markers to put little stray marks on the poster—a red dot on the guitar, a tiny check mark in the margins, anything, as long as each mark was unique and in a different place. "Why are we even doing this?" Dipper asked.

"Cause of this!" Stan had been working with a larger marker. He now had a label: "UNIQUE! One of a kind MISPRINTED POSTERS! Absolutely NO TWO ARE EXACTLY ALIKE! COLLECTOR'S ITEM! $50.00 each until the end of WOODSTICK! THEN THE PRICE GOES TO $500.00 per! GET THEM NOW!"

"That  _could_ look more professional," Mabel said.

"This is just th' ad copy," Stan said. "You get to do the finished product. Use the fancy-shmancy computer! Print it out in full glorious technical coloring! Lots of different colors! Graphics! Go nuts! And I'll pay you five bucks!"

"You already owe me thirty," Mabel pointed out. She and Stan had been first back at the Shack, so she'd won the initial ten, and she had checked, x'd, and dotted her share of the misprints.

"I'm good for it!" Stan said. "C'mon, Pumpkin, this is Grunkle Stan begging you. Go do this for me. I wanna get the stack up in the RV by opening time tomorrow! Oh, oh, and be sure to tell Soos—only put out ten of these babies at a time! If the marks think the supplies are limited, they'll move faster. That's an idea. Add 'LIMITED SUPPLY' to that cover label, Sweetie!"

"Let's go, Dip," Wendy said, tugging his sleeve. "Our work here is done."

It was getting late, past ten, so they drove to Yumberjacks for a couple of shakes and sat in Wendy's car to drink them. "Man," Wendy said, chunking her straw into the thick shake to break up a lump of ice cream. "Stan and money, huh?"

"Yeah," Dipper said. "You know the story on that? His folks kicked him out of the house when he was a senior in high school, just a couple of months from graduation, because his mom and dad were sure he'd ruined Ford's science project that was supposed to be  worth a fortune. Their dad told him not to come back before he'd made a million dollars."

"Rough, man," Wendy said.

"Yeah, it was. But anyhow, I think that's what makes Stan so greedy. Well, that and he lived in the Shack for thirty years after Grunkle Ford disappeared through the Portal. He had to make enough money to pay the mortgage on the Shack, plus buy the stuff he needed to repair the Portal and find Ford again."

"Now,  _that's_  impressive," Wendy said. "Ford's got, like, a million Ph.D.'s, and Stan never even finished high school, but Stan still got the machine to work again."

"Grunkle Stan's not  _dumb_ ," Dipper said. "He's just got a different focus. Like Mabel's just as smart as I am—"

"Can't much tell it," Wendy said. "Sorry, Dip."

"No, no, that's my point. Mabel knows so many things I don't. She figures out people way before I do. And she's kind of a genius at art, really talented. Me, I can barely play the guitar."

She nudged him. "I like your guitar playing."

Dipper shrugged. "Yeah, but I've been taking lessons for three years now, and I'm fine for sort of around-the-campfire stuff, but I know I'll never be half as good as Robbie. Take Mabel, though—man, she could go professional with her art right now. She'll be great after she goes to art college."

"I think I see what you're driving at," Wendy said. "Different kinds of intelligence, huh?"

"Right," Dipper said. "Like I'm kinda book-smart, but Mabel's people-smart and talent-smart, I guess? Something like that."

"Mm. What kind of shake did you get?" Wendy asked, sipping her strawberry.

"Chocolate mint," Dipper said. "Want some?"

"Mint," Wendy said with a sigh. "I thought I could smell mint. Wish I'd thought of that! Yeah. Love me some mint, man. Yeah, I'll take a little taste. Come here, boyfriend."

She pressed her lips against his and took the first of many tastes that night.


	6. Let the Music Play On

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

 

**(August 19, 2016)**

**6: Let the Music Play On**

To their surprise, Dipper and Wendy found Mabel already on the site when they arrived at the fair grounds on Friday morning. "Where were you at breakfast?" Dipper asked her.

She groaned. "Working! Grunkle Stan had me come here to help him check in all the performers. I had to take care of autographing."

"What autographing?" Wendy asked.

"One of those stupid posters that Soos messed up," Mabel said. "Grunkle Stan had the bright idea to have every single musician autograph one of them. A hundred and sixty-three in all, counting groups and soloists. He's gonna raffle it off, five bucks a ticket."

"Stan doesn't miss a trick," Dipper said.

"What's open for food?" Mabel asked. "I'm starving."

Wendy peered down Merchants' Row. "Um, the food carts are over there on the left. I don't' see anything much breakfast-y. There's a churro wagon—"

"Don't," Dipper warned. "Those things made people sick!"

"Tell you what," Wendy said, "run over to Greasy's. Dip and I came past it, and it's not real crowded at the moment."

"But it's like a mile away," she moaned. "And I'm tired, and I don't have Helen Wheels!"

"Soos will bring the tram by in ten minutes," Dipper said, checking his phone for the time. "Go and eat and have him pick you up when he's bringing tourists back. That'll give you half an hour, anyway."

"I guess that's my best shot," Mabel agreed. "Why are you two here so early? Gates don't open for another hour and ten minutes."

"We're gonna check out the merch," Wendy said.

"OK, see you guys later—oh, wait, here you go, Dip. A hundred and twenty dollars that I borrowed from you when I went clothes shopping. How do you like the outfit, by the way?"

Dipper, in shades, vest, V-neck decorated with musical notes, laddered jeans, and ankle boots, said, "I like Wendy's better."

"Yeah," Wendy said, "only I feel like Soos that time Mabel dressed him up like Questiony the Question Mark: This outfit's more revealing than I expected."

She was wearing the crown of colorful silk flowers—roses, yellow daisies, violets—plus the short Gravity Falls top, with her midriff exposed, and the low-rider jeans and sandals.

"Nah, you look great!" Mabel said. "I gotta find time to change into my swag after I get some breakfast. I'll meet you up on the hillside later. If you get there first, save me a spot!"

Dipper tucked the bills that Mabel had handed him into his wallet. "Mabel paid back a debt," he said. "Ought to mark this date on the calendar."

Thanks to Stan's cunning, the Mystery Shack RV had a primo spot in the row of hucksters, and they dropped in. Melody had just opened. "Don't you two look nice!" she said brightly.

"I'm starting to think I need a wrap around my middle," Wendy said.

"No!" said Dipper. "Tell her she's not wearing anything more revealing than most girls do at the beach!"

"I think he's right," Melody said with a smile. "And you'll see girls with a lot more revealing outfits today!"

"Oh, man," Dipper said, picking up one of the misprinted posters. "Look at this!"

According the sign that Mabel had finally printed for Stan, the posters were marked down from $200.00 each to only fifty bucks, and there was a LIMITED SUPPLY! The autographed one, crowded with signatures from huge and scrawling to tight and small, hung in a glass case with "WIN THE ONLY FULLY AUTOGRAPHED POSTER! Only five dollars a ticket!" on a placard taped above it.

"Hey, there's Robbie and Tambry!" Wendy said, pointing. Robbie had written right across the neck of the guitar, and Tambry's smaller signature was directly under the "Valentino" part. Dipper peeled off a ten from the money that Mabel had returned to him. "Give Wendy two tickets, please," he said to Melody.

"Well . . . I really can't," Melody apologized. "Employees of the Mystery Shack are disqualified from the raffle."

"Oh," Dipper muttered. "Sorry, Wen."

"It's OK," Wendy said. "Wow, you guys packed a lot of merch in here!"

And as though on cue, four teens came in, chattering and craning. One of the two girls said to Wendy, "Oh, wow! I like the Gravity Falls tee! You got 'em here?"

"As a matter of fact," Dipper said smoothly, "they do. Except theirs aren't cut off like this one. But you can personalize it yourself!" He showed her where the tee shirts were, pretty much identical to Wendy's and in four different colors. They cost about three dollars wholesale. Stan was selling them for twenty-five each, and the girl bought two, while her date and the other guy bought two of the limited-edition posters.

More customers were lining up to come in, so Wendy and Dipper left. "Looks like they're going to do good business," Dipper said.

"They always do. Hey, look, Mardi Gras necklaces!"

So Dipper bought her half a dozen strings of colorful, iridescent beads—"I just hope nobody's got more of these and expects me to flash them for another string," she said, hanging them around her neck.

They poked around for an hour and didn't buy much of anything else. Then just before eleven, they joined the throng at the gate, exchanged their tickets for wrist bracelets, and after Dipper retrieved their blanket from where he'd cleverly stashed it under the stage, they made their way up the hill and found a good spot with enough shade to make frequent applications of sunscreen unnecessary.

A popular duo, Twenty Toes, opened the show. They had a folk-rocky vibe and the swelling crowd liked them a lot, shouting requests for songs they didn't have in their repertoire. But the guy and the girl, both long-haired—except the girl didn't have a beard—laughed and cracked jokes and with just their two guitars they ran through about ten tuneful songs, not quite to Dipper's taste, but well-performed.

"Look there!" Wendy said as the duo was exiting. "Man, I can't believe it! Hey! Thompson! Thompson! Thompson!"

Thompson and a sort-of-pudgy girl heard him, waved, and came up the hill. "Hi, Wendy!" Thompson said, grinning. "Hey, Dipper! You guys remember Vanilla?"

"Sure!" Wendy said. "Sit down and tell us how you've been! I haven't seen you in, like, forever!"

Thompson sat down, took a furtive look around, and then broke out some snacks. "Here you go. Don't let Security see. Um, well, I'm the manager of the theater now—head guy, I mean! And Vanilla's moved here to Gravity Falls, and—show them your ring, Vanilla!"

Smiling, the girl held out her left hand. She wore an attractive engagement ring, one with a cluster of diamonds instead of a solitaire. Wendy oohed and ahhed, and Dipper said, "That's great! Congratulations, you guys!"

"Hey," Wendy said, "how 'bout mine?" She pointe to the silver ring she wore in a navel piercing.

"Cool," Vanilla said.

"It's a pre-engagement ring," she said with a grin. "Got it from Dipper!"

"No fooling?" Thompson asked.

"No fooling," Wendy said. "My belly button's gonna marry his belly button."

"The real thing is coming soon," Dipper said. "Wendy said yes."

"Oh, man! Great!" Thompson said. "You guys are like the coolest couple!"

Dipper took Wendy's hand, feeling self-conscious. "Thanks, man. Congratulations on the promotion at work, too. Oh, Wendy's now the official manager of the Mystery Shack!"

A little later they spotted Gideon and Ulva, but Ulva was skittish in crowds, and the to of them stuck at a spot close to the exit gates. Nate and Lee showed up at noon, stag, and finally saw Wendy waving and came over. Nate now sported a goatee, and Lee had his hair conservatively cut, looking like a collegiate conservative. But they were about like they'd always been, ragging on each other, explaining they were both girlfriend-less for the time being, though each of them insisted he had a girlfriend back in college.

"Yeah," Wendy teased, "in Canada, right?"

Thompson eagerly interrupted: "Guys, Wendy and Dipper are nearly engaged!"

Lee high-fived Dipper. "All right, Dr. Funtimes!"

Nate punched him. "That's my nickname for him, you dweeb!"

Lee punched him back. "Your mom's a dweeb!"

And for a little while it was just like old times.

Teek and Mabel joined the party. Because this year there were so many musicians, there was no break for lunch, but people went out and bought snacks, including the potentially lethal churros, but Mabel and Teek had brought in a picnic basket full of goodies.

"How'd you even manage that?" Thompson asked, taking a chicken salad sandwich from the basket.

"I know the festival promoter," Mabel said smugly.

At about one, some of the first-ranking performers took the stage—beginning with Robbie V. and the Tombstones, with Mrs. Valentino at the keyboard and joining in with her husband on vocals. Dipper hadn't heard any of the first three songs in their set—he said to Wendy, "They kinda softened their style, huh?"

"Yeah," Wendy said. "Tambry calls it Mellow Metal."

The tunes still had a hard-driving bass line, but now the lyrics were less about hating on somebody and more about standing up for your rights, having fun with your number one, and lovin' each other hard. The crowd loved it.

"Here's a classic!" Robbie yelled over applause, and they played the instrumental "Cold Creek," which made Dipper grin, because he'd composed the tune. True, he'd done it more as an acoustical music picture, and they played it more like a metal tone poem, but it was recognizable.

Mabel elbowed him. "You should get a royalty!" she told him.

"I don't mind," Dipper said. Privately, he thought it was great that the album gave him a composer's credit and that at the end of the tune, Robbie called out, "That was 'Cold Creek,' composed by one of our friends, Dipper Pines! I hope he's here. Great tune, man!"

"Whoa!" Vanilla said. "You're a musician?"

"I got lucky that one time," Dipper said.

"Hey, you're Wendy's boyfriend," Mabel teased. "So you got lucky more than once, Broseph!"

"I can't argue with that," Dipper told her.

Three times everybody got up and danced, even Dipper and Wendy. All in all, it was a great, if overpriced, afternoon, the crowd was happy, and it looked like they were off to a great weekend.

Dipper hoped that nothing would come along to spoil it.

And, being Dipper, immediately thought, "I shouldn't have done that."

Dr. Funtimes. Right. And also Dr. Lightning-rod-for-weirdness.

Now he wondered when the trouble would start . . ..


	7. The Music of the Midnight

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 19-20, 2016)**

**7: The Music of the Midnight**

At seven-thirty, Dipper and Wendy took a dinner break, catching the tram back to the Shack. Abuelita had worked all day in the gift shop, and Soos had ordered Chinese food, but not much was left. That was OK—Dipper and Wendy were both pretty good cooks (Dipper thanks to what Wendy had taught him).

They rummaged and found the makings, then created taco burgers—ground beef with an egg, crushed corn chips, chopped onion, and a generous smidgen of Abuelita's home-made taco seasoning, mix it up, shape it into patties, grill it, grill a couple of buns, and then garnish the sandwich with Cheddar cheese, tomato (one slice for Dipper, since he didn't much care for tomatoes), lettuce, and salsa.

As a side, they had a green salad topped with the leftovers of some of Soos's special guacamole—the one dish he was best at—and  _Voilà!_ Or, as Abuelita would say,  _¡Listo!_  They had made enough for three burgers, and Soos, who'd already eaten and was resting before the next tram run, was curious and ate the third.

"Man!" he said after a couple of bites. "This is like a taco, only it's one you can hold in your hand! What do you call these?"

Wendy shrugged. "Taco burgers is all we ever called 'em."

Soos smacked his lips. "Oh, wow. If you could teach Teek how to cook these, we could put 'em on the menu and become like world famous! How about Carnes  _Misteriosas_?"

Dipper hadn't studied Spanish—French was the requirement for his college of choice—but he'd picked up some from Abuelita. "Well," he said, grinning, "since that means 'mystery meat,' I don't think that'd be very attractive. How about, um . . .  _Tacos Bunitos_? Bunitos with a U?"

"Mm, well, I dunno, dude," Soos said, staring at the half burger that remained in his hand. "That kinda means, like, 'pretty tacos,' but the pretty part is misspelled. Oh, wait, I think I got it! BUNitos 'cause they're on BUNS! Ha! Uh, is that, like right?"

"Right," Dipper said. "Kind of a lame pun."

"No, it's an amazing pun!" Soos said. "But it really should be bunitas, not tos. Wait, wait, I got it, dudes! Tacos Bunitas y Misterosas? See, like for short we could call it a TBM!"

"Genius, Soos," Wendy said. "We'll teach Teek, and they're really not hard to make. They're good with avocado topping, too."

"We'll add 'em to the menu next week!" Soos said. "Thank you guys!"

"No biggie," Wendy said. She nudged Dipper. "Hey, man, we'd better do the dishes so's we don't miss Cold Hash's big set!"

"Let's stack 'em in the dishwasher," Soos said. "I'll help and then drive you guys over in the tram. There'll be some people there ready to leave in twenty minutes or so, anyways."

And so Dipper and Wendy got chauffeured to the fair grounds in a vehicle bigger than any stretch limo. Dipper noticed how smooth the ride was and complimented Wendy on her mechanical skills. "You only love me for my wrenches!" she said, teasing.

"No, I love you for lots of your other things," Dipper said. Soos overheard him and chuckled, though Dipper could never be sure of what Soos might have thought the joke was. When they reached the fair grounds, people were drifting back in for the evening of music. Dipper and Wendy joined them. Except for Thompson and Vanilla, who'd had to leave for the evening shift at the theater, everyone was still on the hillside.

It was a little cooler than it had been, with a cloudless sky making the heat radiate fast, and Nate and Lee sat under a blanket they'd brought, found, or taken. Mabel and Teek were in a sweater. Not two sweaters, but one, a couple's sweater that Mabel had knitted exclusively for the occasion. Dipper laughed when he saw them. "You guys," he said. "You look like those knights who say 'ni!'"

Mabel stuck out her tongue. "Shut up and fetch us a shrubbery!"

"Just in time," Wendy said, sitting down and holding Dipper's hand as he sat close to her.

On stage, the master of ceremonies announced Cold Hash, and the crowd cheered. It was a five-person group, like Robbie V. and the Tombstones, but the bassist, drummer, and keyboardist were all women, leaving the lead guitarist and rhythm guitarist/saxophonist as the two guys. All three girls and both boys took turns joining in on vocals, though generally the lead guitarist, Max'l Rozo (his name was Maxwell, but that's how he spelled it) was the main vocalist.

They had an intricate, not-quite-classifiable sound, hard-rocking but not quite in the heavy metal category, though they could sometimes surprise with a mellow ballad, usually one written by Belle Batteur, the drummer, with lyrics by her long-time boyfriend, Hoyt Horne, the rhythm guitarist. They opened with their very first hit, a raucous oldie entitled "Danger Lane to Highway Town," which had the crowd on its feet from Max'l Rozo's first licks.

Dipper's fingers twitched. Max'l had mad guitar skills—better than Robbie V's, and  _he_  was great. Wistfully, Dipper thought,  _If only I could be that good . . . ._

But, no, he couldn't. Not without devoting practically every waking hour of his life to practicing, and that was a price he didn't want to play. As the cheering wound down after their first number, people in the crowd started yelling out requests: "Rock All Night Long!" "Won't Leave My Lover!" "Dream Scene!"

Max'l laughed, noodling with a few chords. "Relax, Gravity Falls! We'll get to at least some of them! Next, though, see how you like this brand-new one—"Jumpstart!"

The keyboardist led off, and Belle gave an excited, rising shriek as she cut in with the backbeat. Then Max'l and Judy Truly came in with the vocals. Though ten years younger, it had even more drive and energy than "Danger Lane to Highway Town" and was incredibly catchy. Soon everyone was clapping along. Except Dipper. He put his arm around Wendy's waist and touched her bare flesh.

— _You're cold! Want my jacket?_

_You got it with you? Where did you hide it?_

— _Just a sec_. Dipper leaned forward and took Mabel's bag. She glanced around and nodded her permission, and Dipper dug out his long windbreaker, not heavy but lined with flannel, enough to keep Wendy warm.

He held it for her and she put it on, zipping it and then going back to the rhythm of clapping. "Thanks, man!"

She covered her legs with a corner of the blanket they all shared and indicated that felt warm enough. "You cold?" she said into his ear.

"No, I'm good," Dipper said, though his bare arms felt a little cool. He was glad that he had not worn shorts. It wasn't really  _cold,_  probably in the low sixties, but after a hot Gravity Falls day, he could feel the difference.

The musical line-up for that evening was mostly rockers, Wendy's favorite genre, and they sat through band after band and got up and warmed up with some dancing from time to time. Then, past midnight, the master of ceremonies said, "OK, folks, thank you for being a great, great audience! Now we're going to wrap it up for today. Be sure to come back tomorrow, though—more Robbie V. and the Tombstones, more Bash!, more Open Rangers, and lots more  _more!_ Now, she's not on the program, but here to play you out is a beautiful lady who'll also be back tomorrow night—ladies and gentlemen, the lovely sounds of Ariel!"

"Who's that?" Mabel asked. She and Teek had just squirmed out of the tandem sweater. "She looks kinda—other."

The MC had placed a tall stool on stage next to a mike on a long stand, and a very slender woman, not old but with hair that looked like spun silver came out smilingly and thanked him. She perched on the stool. Her hair fell over her shoulders. Her ankle-length dress flowed like liquid silk, clinging to her. It was . . . hard to tell what color it was. It was a shimmery light blue, maybe, with silver gleams? She raised a flute to her lips and began to play.

Dipper thought,  _She looks almost like an albino_. Other words kicked around in his head:  _Elfin. Fairy-like. Bewitching_.

The flute music played clear and sweet, a languorous tune, not fast, not slow, with trills and a sense of flowing—water, time, whatever. Dipper wished that he could remember it, but he somehow knew that within a few minutes, the tune would slip from his mind.

No one stood still to listen. Everyone was packing up or moving toward the exit, but imperceptibly, their movements started to match the slow, sweet flow of the tempo. The flutist didn't seem to notice or mind—maybe her role was to play people away peacefully.

Dipper folded the blanket, Mabel said, "Don't stash it, I'll wash it tonight and it'll be dry again by tomorrow's opening." He half-unfolded it, though, and wore it like a cape. His arms felt definitely chilly. Lee and Nate pushed on ahead through the crowd, playfully shoving and tripping each other. Dipper, Wendy, Mabel, and Teek lagged back. With Mabel in the lead, they walked down the hillside and right to the stage and looked up at Ariel, who sat with lowered eyelids, looking in a trance, swaying a little as she played the flute, seemingly never having to inhale.

Mabel gave her a thumbs-up, and Ariel must have noticed. She smiled and slow-nodded in a way that was almost like a bow, and the flute music skittered just a little, as though she were improvising. Mabel chuckled. For a second, Dipper had a mental image of a carefree Mabel rolling down a grassy hillside, cheering. Then it was gone.

Then Ariel's gaze fell on Wendy, and the flute sang of shaded forest depths, soft rustling breezes, and the fall of axe on wood. And then Dipper's turn as the flute ran a foot race, the tempo suddenly driving and intense. He closed his eyes momentarily and saw the track ahead and felt his heart pumping.

But the line and the flute moved on. "Come on!" Mabel said from a few steps ahead. "Teek got Stan to let him stash his car in the artists' lot."

"Who did?" Teek asked.

"Well, me, technically, but Stan agreed you could do it!"

They got into the silver Focus. Most of the smaller parking lot stood empty now—except for the far side, where a little community of RVs had sprung up like mushrooms after a rain. Teek started the car and eased out, taking a back way to avoid the traffic from the main lot. Mabel yawned. "Time is it?"

Dipper checked his phone. "Five past one," he said.

"Aw, the night's young!" Mabel said.

"Not for me it isn't," Wendy said. I wanna get to bed for at least seven hours. Everybody else as cold as I am?"

"It's pretty cool," Teek agreed. "Readout says it's fifty-seven outside. I just turned on the heater."

Because of the detours he took to avoid the crawling stream of traffic, it took a little longer than normal to get to the Shack, but they still were there within fifteen minutes. Teek parked, and he and Mabel stood under the porch light for a few minutes, saying their goodnights.

Inside, Dipper hugged Wendy and kissed her. "You're staying over, right?"

"Yeah, got it planned out," Wendy said, snuggling close. With him in his ankle boots and her in sandals, they matched each other in height, or very nearly. "Didn't I tell you?"

"No," Dipper said. "We got kinda busy with all of Stan's stuff. So you're sleeping in Mabel's bed?"

"No, I'm sleeping in yours," she said, making him stiffen a little. Then she chuckled. "Don't get your hopes up, man. Mabel and me are taking your room, and you're taking Mabel's."

"Oh," Dipper said. "Um. Sorry, I—uh, I'll go get my night stuff."

"What night stuff?" she asked. "You sleep in your underwear, Dip!"

"Well, yeah, most of the time." They were whispering as they walked up the stairs. "But I'll grab my pajamas, 'cause first of all, I'm cold, and second, I'll be decent for breakfast without having to put on my concert clothes."

However, he also insisted on changing the sheets on his bed—though Wendy said that wasn't really necessary—so the two of them changed the bed. Mabel came in, yawning. "You two not already between the sheets? Hah! I kid. OK, I've put the beach blanket in the washer. Whoever's up first tomorrow, stick it in the dryer, set it on 'Woolens,' and give it two hours."

"I'll do it," Dipper said. He was usually the first one awake, anyhow.

"Thanks, Brobro. Good concert, I thought."

"Yeah, I liked Cold Hash a lot," Dipper agreed.

"That Ariel girl was good, too," Wendy said. "Does she have any recordings out?"

"Don't know, I never heard of her before," Mabel said. "We can look her up on the laptop."

"Tomorrow, though," said Wendy with a yawn.

"Right, right," Dipper muttered. He got a change of underwear and his pajamas—a gift from his Mom, who'd somewhere found a Navy-blue pair with a white pine-tree emblem on the jacket pocket—and Wendy stepped out onto the landing for a goodnight kiss.

Tired but happy, Dipper went down to the guest room—Mabel's room in the summers, now—and pulled on the pajama bottoms but didn't bother with the jacket. He drew back the covers, got between the sheets—Mabel hadn't changed hers, and they smelled like her perfume—and reached to click off the bedside lamp. The moon, a day past full and still fat and silver, shone through the window.

Dipper grunted, but he was too sleepy to get up and close the curtains. And anyway, the light wasn't bothersome, just silvery and . . . .

He fell asleep without realizing he was doing it, and before long he dreamed that the moon hung just outside his window, a huge sphere of silver, and sang to him in the sweet, seductive voice of a flute.


	8. The Mystery of Ariel Hemppin

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 20, 2016)**

**8: The Mystery of Ariel Hemppin**

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _Saturday Morning: Wendy and I went for our run on our nature trail this morning. No biggie, everything was normal, but the day rapidly began to get warm once the sun was up. We talked a little about Woodstick. Wendy says that Robbie and Tambry want to get together with us this afternoon/evening, maybe between 6 and 8, for dinner and a visit. That's OK with me—the first acts at 8 are country-folk sort of stuff, not my favorite._

_The first unusual thing came when Jeff and Shmebulock flagged us down near the Talking Rock, Grunkle Stan's fake Native American relic._

" _Hi," I said. "Oh, if Soos forgot to tell you, no shows today because of—"_

" _Yes, we know," Jeff said. "Oops, I'm sorry to interrupt. I have to learn not to do that!" He balled up his fist and hit himself in the head._

" _Whoa, dude!" Wendy said. "Ease off. You're not Dobby!"_

" _Huh?" Jeff asked. "How do you dob?"_

" _Never mind," I told him. Wendy and I were jogging in place all this time. "What's up?"_

" _Um—" Jeff cleared his throat. "This is new, see, and we've never done anything like this before, but—well—you know the other Dippers?"_

" _The other—" I started, but then I got what he was talking about. "Oh, the copy-machine clones. Yeah, I know who you mean."_

" _Um, you know, a long time back you put up a—" he turned to Shmebulock. "What are those things?"_

" _Shmebulock," Shmebulock said, of course._

" _Right, right," Jeff said. "You put up remembering signs for them near the Gack of Doom. Remember?"_

" _We call them 'markers,' " I said. "Or 'memorials.' They remind people of those who have died."_

" _We'd like to, um, buy one," Jeff said. "'But we don't know how."_

" _Buy one?" I asked. "Why?"_

_Jeff looked as if he were about to cry. "Because our Queen died," he said. "We don't have any way of remembering those whose spirits have flown, except the Gnomal lays. Uh, those are poems that the Gnomebards memorize and recite. But we know that they change over years. We want something that will let all future Gnomes remember the sacrifice of the last Queen of the Gnomes."_

" _Last Queen?" Wendy stopped jogging. "What's up with that? Don't you guys always elect a new one?"_

" _We always used to," Jeff said, and then he told us the story of how all the Gnomes had decided to try, I guess you'd call it, a representative form of government. Jeff was the Prime Minister, and they had some kind of Council of Gnomes and even a delegate from the feral Gnomes. "So," he said, "it looks like we won't have Queens any more. That's hard for us to grasp. We're not sure how this new thing will work out. So we'd like to have a marker memorial for Queen Badger, to remind us."_

" _Our friend Fiddleford made the bronze ones I put down," I told Jeff. "I'm sure he'd do one for your Queen, too. I don't think he'd charge you any money. He loves to keep busy with stuff, and metalwork's like a hobby for him."_

" _Would you go with me to ask him?" Jeff asked._

" _Sure," I said. "But he knows who you are. He'll remember you and the other Gnomes from Weirdmageddon. Want to go this morning?"_

" _If you have time."_

" _Come along with us."_

" _I'll meet you at the Mystery Shack," he said, and he and Shmebulock faded into the underbrush._

" _Come on, Dip," Wendy said. "Let's beat him there!"_

_So we ran the last quarter-mile or so in a sprint. I won't say it was my best time ever, but it wasn't bad. However, when we came pounding out just past the Bottomless Pit, there sat Jeff up ahead on the museum porch, his feet dangling. "How do they DO that?" Wendy asked._

" _Move so fast?_   _That's a Gnomish secret," I told her._

_The second very strange thing was that Mabel wasn't there. She must have got up really early. Melody said she'd eaten breakfast, because she'd left her cereal bowl and box on the table, so—_

" _She didn't say where she was going?" I asked. "Leave a note?"_

_She had not. Wendy and I took quick showers and then had breakfast—Melody had made a big bowl of cheesy scrambled eggs, and we had that with wheat toast—and even Jeff joined us, sitting in the baby's high chair (Little Soos thought he was a puppy for some reason) and eating a bowl of nuts and dried cranberries._

_Melody told us to go on, she and Soos would do the dishes, so we all got in the Green Machine—I saw that Helen Wheels was not in the lot—and drove over to the McGucket mansion . . .._

* * *

Fiddleford McGucket stacked three books on the lab table and Jeff sat on them, bringing him eye to eye with the eccentric inventor. The Gnome explained what they wanted, and Fiddleford nodded. "Why, shore," he said amiably. "That's not such a hard row t'hoe. Sketchify me out what design you want, and I reckon I can have it all ready for you on Tuesday."

"We'll pay," Jeff said.

Fiddleford made a swatting motion. "Oh, p-shaw! I'm right happy to oblige you, Mr. Jeff. You Gnome fellers do a smart job a-keepin' mice and other varmints out'n the house. No need to pay me, I'm tickled as a pup to help out."

"I wish Mabel was here," Dipper said. However, Fiddleford fetched them an encyclopedia volume (B), they looked up  _Badger, American,_ and Jeff studied the illustration and suggested little changes to make the picture look more like the late Queen.

Dipper did his best with pencil and paper, and under Jeff's direction, he drew a pretty fair sketch of the badger, reclining, facing the viewer, with her front paws crossed and her head held high, an intelligent gleam in her eye.

"That's really close!" Jeff said. "That'll do! Thank you!"

Fiddleford studied it. "Looks purty as a calf in a Sunday-go-to-meetin' dress, Dipper," he said. "Now what about the words? What do you want as her epitaph?"

"What's one of those?" Jeff asked.

Wendy stepped in: "An epitaph is like, a saying that reminds people what the person was like, or what she valued. Like 'Beloved wife and mother.'"

"Um," Jeff said. "Gosh, I'm no good at this. Um—"

Dipper said, "How about Queen Badger the First, r. 2012-2016. She gave her life for her people."

Jeff murmured that a couple of times. "I like it," he said. "What does 'r' mean?"

"Ruled," Dipper said. "That's the time that she reigned as queen."

"Oh, I see. Then what are the thousands?"

"Human dates," Wendy said. "What do you Gnomes call the years?"

Jeff shrugged. "Well, like, 'The Year Half of Us Starved in the Winter,' or 'The Year We Fought the Yellow Three-Sides.'"

"That's a little long," Dipper said.

"The human years will do," Jeff said. "I'll tell the others what they mean. Thanks. I know the other Gnomes will like to have this marker memorial. It makes me feel a lot better, to do something to keep our memory of her living even after her spirit has flown."

They drove Jeff back to the Shack, and on the way, Dipper said, "Why don't you Gnomes learn to write? Some of you can read, I know."

"It's an old thing," Jeff said, frowning. "Not a rule, or even Lore, but I guess it's a custom. Something about not holding onto the past because the future will be dreadful. In the past, Gnomes have nearly all died off several times. We're afraid of the future and dread it, so, you know, we don't write about the past because we don't want to, um, what's the term?"

"Tempt the fates to read it and send you worse times," Dipper said, and Jeff nodded.

"Dude," Wendy said, "think about it. If you have, like—a scribe, somebody who writes down the important stuff that happens every year, and keeps like a book of everything, then you could read it and learn from the past."

"That's a point," Jeff said as Dipper opened the car door for him. "I don't know how others will feel, but I'll ask the Council. Thanks for the suggestion." He hopped out and hurried toward the trail, where he ducked into the brush and vanished from sight.

Since it was still way early for the festival, Dipper phoned Mabel. "Where are you?" he asked as Wendy headed over to Woodstick an hour before Soos would start the tram runs.

"Here at the fairgrounds," Mabel said. "I've been thinking, and I'm going around to all the acts getting autographs on a copy of the corrected poster. I want a souvenir!"

"It must be important to you to get up so early!" Dipper said.

"Yeah, that might have been a mistake," Mabel said. "Most of the musicians here I've had to wake up. I had to be extra-charming to keep some of them from writing nasty things on the poster."

When Dipper and Wendy arrived, they saw Grunkle Stan, who was restocking the rolling Mystery Shack RV from the trunk of his El Diablo. "Hi, Stan," Wendy said, leaning out the driver's window. "Any chance we can park in the VIP lot?"

"Sure," Stan said. "Hang on just a minute." He took a box of merch inside the RV and came out a few seconds later with a printed form on pale green paper. He leaned on the car and signed his name. "Here ya go. Just leave that on the dash, driver's side. Word to the wise, park at the lower end, near the gate, and back into the space. You can make a faster getaway."

"Thanks, man," Wendy said, putting the form on the dash. "You're the best."

"Yeah, yeah, tell that to the cockamamie musicians who've been bendin' my ear about bein' woke up too early," Stan grumped.

"Let's go park," Dipper said hastily.

* * *

Mabel had all the signatures of the artists who were staying in their RV's—she still needed the headliners, and planned to hang out at the backstage entrance to grab them as they came in. She figured one shift from nine to ten (even if some of them weren't on until noon, ten was their call time), then another from noon to one and a final one from five until seven would let her net every single autograph.

So she was sitting in a folding director's chair, chatting with a couple of the hunky security guys. She had pacified them by bringing out her small sketch pad and a pencil and drawing caricatures of them.

Now, Mabel didn't fully realize it, but she had blossomed as an artist. The guards loved the sketches so much that she did a second set for them, these not cartoony but realistic. "Whoa!" one of them, Brent, said, looking at it. "This is nearly like a photo!"

"Do me, do me!" said Kris eagerly, and he posed as Mabel obliged.

"Girl, you've got a lot of talent," Brent said, looking at the sketch of his partner. "This is better looking than he is!"

"Yeah," Kris said. "Wait, what?"

"What's that?" Mabel asked, tilting her head.

It was flute music, from somewhere back among the RV's.

"That sounds like Ariel," Brent said. "She showed up yesterday and the MC told us to let her play, so she came on real late."

"She plays so beautiful," Kris said.

Mabel frowned. She checked the poster, but she would have remembered—she was sure she'd rounded up every single autograph back there, but—no Ariel. "'Scuse me!" she said, hopping up from the folding chair. "Hey, guys, if any of the performers show up while I'm away, keep a list of their names for me, OK?"

"You got it," Kris said. As they watched Mabel jog off toward the sound of the flute, he added, "There goes a good kid!"

* * *

The musician sat cross-legged on the grass, the flute to her lips, her eyes closed, playing a soft, lyrical something that to Mabel sounded like an aubade. She knew the term because Dipper had transcribed a few of that type of composition for guitar—one by Satie, one by Rossini, one by Grieg—and had explained to her that "aubade" means "morning song."

Aubade music tended to be slow and smooth, and Dipper's guitar teachers thought highly of his efforts—which he practiced a lot, so Mabel had heard them dozens of times. Ariel, with her flute raised and her delicate fingers dancing on the stops, did not seem to notice her, so Mabel sat on the grass—ew, sort of damp with dew—not far from the flutist and just listened.

The flute sang of a clear sky and a bright dawn, of birds awaking and twittering, of soft warm breezes and new life stirring. Mabel could almost see everything. And then the flute softly trailed off.

Ariel lowered the instrument and softly asked, "Did you like that?"

"Oh, yeah!" Mabel said. "It was great! An aubade?"

"You must be a music lover," Ariel said with a gentle smile. "Yes, a way to bring in a new day."

"Who wrote it?" Mabel said. "My brother plays guitar and he'd love to learn that."

"It isn't written," Ariel said. "I just made it up. It came to me as I played, and I couldn't repeat it the same way again."

"You're kidding!" Mabel said.

"No, seriously. No two mornings are alike and so no two songs are, either." Ariel tilted her head. In the light of day, there was something delicate about her, almost transparent, something that made her look almost like living porcelain. "Did you hear me last night?"

"Uh-huh!" Mabel said. "Me and my boyfriend loved your music. We waved to you as we were going out. Are you playing again tonight?"

"I will be," Ariel said. "Will you be here again to listen?"

"With all my friends," Mabel said.

"How old are you?" Ariel asked.

"Me? Seventeen! Well, almost. Just a few more days!"

"That's good," Ariel said. "I like for those who have not yet stepped across the threshold of adulthood to hear me."

"That's . . . an interesting way to put it," Mabel said. "Oh, hey, big favor for a fan? Could you sign this poster for me? I'm collecting autographs. I am  _not_  gonna sell this online! It's for me."

Ariel accepted the poster and Mabel's fine-tipped marker and turned the paper so she could sign the lower right corner, diagonally. "There you are, Mabel," she said, returning it.

"You have such pretty handwriting!" Mabel said, reading the signature, in delicate, thin, graceful letters, looking almost like that Elvish script in Tolkien:

_Ariel Hemppin_

The flutist bowed her head briefly, smiling her thanks for the compliment.

Mabel said, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this! Oh, do you have any recordings out?"

"I would not prison a bird in a cage," Ariel said with another smile. "Nor would I prison a tune on paper."

Mabel blinked. "Oh. OK . . . well, I'll see you tonight! Thanks a bunch. Oh, hey, I'm the niece of the promoter, so if you need anything, just get word to me, Mabel."

Ariel nodded, raised her flute, and began to play again.

Mabel got up and hurried back to her folding chair, where she would lie in ambush for the other musicians.

Only when she got there, sat down, and admired her poster did she wonder about two things.

First, the marker she had handed Ariel was black. So why was her signature in gleaming silver?

Second, where had the flutist been hiding earlier? She had to have been in one of the RV's—they were all enclosed within a high chain-link fence, and Mabel knew that the woman had not come in through the entrance to the backstage area.

And then, a little more worrying, a third question came to mind—did Ariel really call her by name before she'd even introduced herself?

Hmm. . . ..


	9. Music Hath Charms

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 20, 2016)**

**9: Music Hath Charms**

Wendy's fringed buckskin top was nearly as distracting as the Gravity Falls tee shirt. Dipper had changed slightly, too—he wore the new laddered jeans and the ankle boots, but instead of the black shirt, he wore a red one with a black vest. And, just to be different, he tied one of Mabel's multicolored bandanas around his head like a sweat band. Wendy stuck with her crown of flowers.

Soos nabbed them for a two-hour shift in the rolling Mystery Shack, to Dipper's discontent, but the time passed quickly. Not exactly pleasantly—as Dipper manned the register, Wendy welcomed visitors and told them about the wonders of the Shack. A lot of the visitors bought a lot of merch.

Most of them were boys. Who flirted with Wendy.

During a momentary lull, Wendy came over to the register. "Don't sweat it, Dip. They're just sniffin' around. None of them appeal to me."

"Yeah," he said sourly, "but I can't help being jealous."

"That's sweet," she said. She touched his cheek.  _But you don't have to be, Big Dipper. I've only got one boyfriend._

"Here it is!" Someone said from the doorway, and whoever it was, Dipper hated him for breaking the mood. A pimply teen about his age or a year or so younger came in with two more. "Uh—is this the place with the misprinted posters?"

"In the box there," Dipper said. "I think there may be just three in there, though."

"We want them!" the kid said. He grabbed one up. "This is it!" he said excitedly. "Ronnie got seventy bucks on WheeBay for his!"

Dipper rang up the sales. As soon as the boys left, he put ten more copies of the poster in the box. "Gonna run out of these in an hour or two," he said. "After these, just six left."

"Man," Wendy said, shaking her head. "Stan, huh?"

Someone yelled, "You in the Shack! Come out with your hands up!"

"You come in, Mabel!" Dipper yelled back.

She came in giggling. "Hi, peons!" she said. "How long you in for?"

Dipper checked his phone. "Ten more minutes. What've you been doing?"

She held out her poster. " _Regardez-vous!_ Doth thine eyes deceive thee? Nay, it is a nearly completely autographed poster! One of my own this time."

"Hey, cool," Wendy said. "So you've been rounding up signatures?"

"Waugh!" Mabel said, rolling her eyes. "Since early this morning! But, hey, if I can track down the Mustache Brothers and Robbie and Tambry and, let's see, Ting and Trusty Jimberlegs, I'll have 'em all!"

"You can get Robbie and Tambry this afternoon around six, if you want to eat with us," Wendy said. "Meet us at the VIP parking gate."

"Will do!" Mabel said.

Dipper was looking at her collection of autographs. He noticed the one in the corner. "Ariel Hemppin?" he asked. "That's the flutist?"

"She's real nice," Mabel said. "I met her early in the morning. She was playing an aubade."

"I thought it was a flute," Wendy said.

Mabel laughed and explained about morning songs. Dipper handed the poster back to her with a frown on his face. Mabel poked him. "What's wrong with you, Mr. Pickleface?"

"Huh?" Dipper asked. "Oh, nothing. It's just—that's an odd name, Hemppin."

"Probably a stage name," Wendy said. "Hemppin like in hemp?" She mimed puffing on a cigarette.

"No!" Mabel said. "She wouldn't do drugs."

"I dunno," Wendy said. "Not that I want to judge her, but she looked kinda old-line hippie to me."

"Not in a million years," Mabel said. "What are you doing, Brobro?"

Dipper had his phone out and was tapping something in. "Net search. Hm. No Ariel Hemppin, that's funny . . . there's an Ariel Hampten, but she's a harpist and it's definitely not the woman we saw last night. Strange, you'd think she'd at least have videos up on ViewTube, but there's nothing."

"Maybe she's a private person," Mabel said. "Oh, hey, Teek's due in, I gotta go to the tram stop and meet him. Catch you later—six, at the VIP parking gate, right?"

"You got it," Wendy said.

Mabel left them. Dipper wrote down Ariel's name. "She's not on the guest list, either," he said.

Wendy shrugged. "Maybe she's payin' her own way. Stan only lists the musicians who get paid or are doing some kind of merch deal with him—hi, welcome to the Mystery Shack Annex!"

And she was busy with a group of kids who came in, milled around, bought two of the misprinted posters, and indulged in other schlock merch, like sunglasses that put rainbows around everything, a cap that let you sip two sodas (or mayhap, beers) at once, air horns, some Mystery Shack and Gravity Falls tee-shirts, and like that. Then Melody showed up and relieved them, they turned over everything to her, and at last they were free to go into the arena and claim their spot.

Alas, it had been taken, so they had to settle for one a little farther from the stage and only in semi-shade. They slathered sunscreen on, helping each other, and then settled in for a metal afternoon, culminating in Robbie V. and the Tombstone's second performance, much more hardcore than the previous day's had been. As they wrapped up their set, Wendy and Dipper folded their beach blanket and made their way down front. Dipper used his pass to get them backstage, and they met Tambry just as she came off. "Guys!" she said.

She hugged both Wendy and Dipper. "Like the look!" she said to Wendy. She sized up Dipper with an appreciative gaze. "Man, you just won't stop growing, will you?" She nudged Wendy. "Is he big enough for you yet?"

"Please," Dipper said.

"Stand next to each other. Hug!" Tambry said. She used her phone to snap a photo. "You guys are about the same height now! I remember when Dipper was small for his age!"

"Well, people do grow," he said.

Robbie and Mutt, their drummer, lugged the drum kit off, and he grinned, too. "Wendy! Dipster! Good to see you guys. You ready to eat? It's early, but I'm starving."

When everything was stowed, the instruments, the beach blanket, everything, Robbie said, "Tell you what: Let's take our car. We got special artist's privileges, and you haven't seen it yet."

"OK if Mabel comes, too?" Dipper asked. "And she'll probably have her boyfriend. Will there be room?"

"We can squeeze everybody in, I think," Robbie said, grinning.

* * *

The Valentinos' car was a brand-new Traverse SUV, three rows of seats. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Sweet," Dipper said. "But I'd never pictured you as an SUV guy!"

"It's practical," Robbie said. "Room for every member of the band, room for most of the instruments, and if Tambry and Me start a family, room for the kiddos."

"Robbie!" Tambry said, laughing. She turned in the passenger seat and said, "We're just talking about that, that's all. We can't get serious until we're out of college."

They picked up Teek and Mabel, and Robbie insisted on taking them to Gastronome, an upscale restaurant about fifteen miles away, near Hirschville. "And I'm paying, OK?" he said. "We just got an advance on our next album, and it was a nice deal."

"You'll live to regret offering to buy Mabel's dinner," Dipper said. "Ouch! Mabel, stop kicking the seat."

It was nice, though, catching up. Robbie looked more . . . conservative than he had back when Dipper had first met him, and much less angsty. He loved to talk shop, and he asked Dipper about his own music.

"I just play for my own amusement," Dipper said.

"Written any interesting tunes lately?"

"Well, a couple, but they're not your style."

"We're thinking about a Christmas album," Robbie said. "For next year, too late for this year. If you got any nice twinkly tunes or write any, let me know."

"Sure," Dipper said, though he didn't have any in mind. "Uh, hey, you guys know a lot of people in music. Where did Ariel Hemppin come from?"

"Who?" Robbie asked blankly. He looked at Tambry.

"I never heard of her, either," Tambry said. "What does she do?"

"She plays the flute," Mabel said. "Real nice music, too. She was on last night at the end of the show."

"Guess we'd already turned in," Robbie said. "We're staying with my folks. The other guys in the band are staying in the Veedub van. Tambry and me, we need a little privacy. Anyways, we left before ten."

"She's not on the list of musicians," Dipper said. "And I can't find any mention of her on the internet."

"Dipper," Mabel said, sounding exasperated, "let it go! This isn't one of your supernatural paranormal whatsis mysteries! It's just a girl who plays sweet music."

"I guess," he said.

The meal and conversation went on for nearly two hours, but Robbie drove them back to Woodstick and dropped them off around nine. Sev'ral Timez had the stage, and Mabel cheated her way down front—Manly Dan had a front-row seat, and he persuaded someone else to let Mabel sit down there—to watch her old friends in action.

Tad Strange had sharpened them up a little. Odd that someone like Tad, with no discernible sense of style for himself, could choose outfits that made Sev'ral Timez look trendy. This year Mulitbear had declined to appear with them—Babba hadn't made a new recording in two years, and he was a little bored with "Disco Girl"—but the group of clones had an updated repertoire of songs that included a few of their standards but ushered in a new sound. It wasn't radical departure, very reminiscent of their neo-Nineties work, and the crowd liked the new stuff and applauded with enthusiasm.

Other groups followed, the sounds becoming mellower as the evening wore on—maybe something Stan had planned, since they got noise complaints every year. Or maybe he was saving the head-banging stuff for a big send-off the next night.

Dipper and Wendy did a couple of slow dances together, very nice. Then around eleven, Ariel came on again, perched on her stool, leaned toward the microphone, and played an entrancing melody that made the crowd quiet down—no one was murmuring or even coughing. The song seemed to go on and on, sweet and soft and alluring.

Wendy sighed. "Wanna go?" she asked. "I'm kinda tired, man."

"Mm?" Dipper asked. "Um, no, this is kind of—listen."

Wendy did, but for some reason the music was getting on her nerves. People were leaving—her Dad had gone, maybe to have an evening out with Sev'ral Timez, whom he'd befriended. Dan had always been a fan of their music. She fidgeted, feeling irritable, not understanding what in the flute music appealed so much to—

Then Wendy noticed something. "Dip!"

"Mm?"

She looked at him. He was smiling, his eyes unfocused, his head swaying to the flute music. She took hold of his arm and sensed that he was—not all there.

_Dipper! Snap out of it, man!_

— _That's such a nice—what? Wow, I feel half asleep! What's wrong, Wendy?_

_Look around, man! People are leaving!_

— _Well, it's getting sort of late for . . . for . . . the older—Wendy, they're all adults! Just the teens are staying!_

_Yeah, weird, right?_

Down front, some of the kids had climbed up on the stage and sitting at Ariel's feet, swaying a little. Mabel sat among them.

_Dip, I wanna go so bad right now! Like the music is driving all the older people away—_

— _You're not old!_

_I'm nineteen! I'm an adult, legally! This is like, I don't know—_

— _Oh, my God! Kids!_

_What is it, Dip?_

— _The kids and the music! Wendy! Her name! I just worked it out in my head! It's an anagram!_

He sent her the image he was seeing. And she saw it too, in glowing letters imposed on the real scene:

ARIEL HEMPPIN

HAMELIN PIPER


	10. A Call in the Night

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 20, 2016)**

**10: A Call in the Night**

Close to eleven p.m. The last thing Ford wanted was to be awakened from sleep by the special phone—but because it  _was_  the special phone, he rolled out of bed, picked up the receiver, snagged his glasses from the nightstand, and stepped barefoo0t into the hall. "Pines here, talk to me," he said.

The voice on the phone didn't bother with greetings: "Sir, this is very odd. I don't know if it has anything to do with the manifestations earlier in the week—"

"Just tell me, Mr. Powers," Ford said quietly.

"Well—it's a potential anomalous reading right where you are, in Gravity Falls, Oregon. Not paranormal, but suggestive of a Type VI event."

Frowning, Ford said, "An incursion of an alien craft into Earth space? Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, reasonably sure. Yesterday at 1201 Pacific time, LROR detected a blip and triangulated on it as it emerged from an apparent orbit. The long-range radar followed it for roughly 5,000 kilometers, descending from an altitude of 442 kilometers over the Pacific to just 3,600 meters when it crossed into US airspace at 1232."

Ford did the mental math—though he'd trained as a scientist, he was always more comfortable with the old-fashioned units of measure, since to most other people they were more understandable. The blip descended, in other words, from an altitude higher than the mean altitude of the International Space Station orbit to about 12,000 feet, at very high speed, nearly Mach 10, hypersonic. "And then?" he asked.

"The radar observer at first thought it might have been a meteorite, though the return suggested something different. Anyway, once it neared the Cascade range, it slowed drastically and maneuvered."

"Meaning it was under control," Ford said.

"Evidently. Our SEWR picked up what is evidently the same object—there's a small gap between the extended range radar and terrestrial stations—as it swung in a wide arc to the northeast, made a long loop, and then approached Central Oregon at an altitude of only a few thousand feet. As it moved inland, its airspeed dropped abruptly from about Mach 4 at the coast to 300 knots as it moved northeast over Washington State and then circled back over Idaho and into Oregon airspace again."

There it was. Feet and knots. Even Powers the punctilious would fall back on feet and nautical miles per hour. Ford took a deep breath. Any Earthly craft slowing that quickly, while turning, would have ripped itself to fragments. Unless, of course, it was one of the experimental Agency planes equipped with the inertial damping they had reverse-engineered from the Area 51 recovered alien ships. Ford asked, "And were there any reports of sonic booms near the coast?"

Powers said, "Negative, sir, none from Oregon or Washington State. However, if it was a craft analogous to the Kepler Sigma Seti probes—"

"It would be air-streamed to eliminate sonic events, yes, I know," Ford said. "Go on."

"The target dropped below the radar horizon at 1347 your time, its airspeed then reduced to 210 knots. At that point, it was between Featherville and Boise, still some two hundred miles from Gravity Falls, but it appeared to be steering a true course toward your location."

Ford pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Any reports of UFO sightings?"

"Negative. Though of course it might be a Category Al-C probe, drone, or manned vessel."

"All right," Ford said. "If it was cloaked, then obviously no one would visually witness it. But why do you think it set down near Gravity Falls?"

"Since UFOs often cause electromagnetic effects, Agent Dover suggested correlating any unusual electromagnetic activity with the known radar track. It took her a good many hours to gather the raw data and then process it, and I've just received her report. Briefly, she has identified fifteen local power disruptions and short outages—on the order of a few minutes—and none of them have any obvious explanation. They were like dominos, falling one at a time in a track that headed your way. The first one was in Spokane, then the rest in Idaho, and Oregon, the closest ones southeast of you—I told you the radar target made an extraordinarily wide turn, nearly a complete loop—and they progressed right to Gravity Falls. At 1555, the eastern part of the Roadkill County electrical grid went down for close to half a minute."

"Yes," Ford said. "I remember, our backup generator kicked in at about that time."

"That was the last of the electromagnetic disturbances," Powers said. "I've ordered a download of satellite surveillance footage, and we'll look for any trace of a landing on it, but the last time a bird tracked near enough for the pictures to be useful was late this afternoon, around 1800. We'll grab that imagery and do a Hinman comparison with footage from earlier in the week and see if anything turns up. It will take a couple of hours, but I thought you ought to know. What are your orders, sir?"

"You've done all the right things," Ford said. "Good job. All right, I'll check with the instrumentation I have on hand. That may necessitate my driving around the Valley, considering the somewhat limited range of the sensors. I will have the red phone with me, so call as soon as you have results, one way or the other."

"Yes, sir. Dispatch a team, sir?"

"It's too early for that," Ford said. "Every time some of our men show up here, there's gossip and rumors for weeks afterward. But have Team—let's see, OR-2 is the nearest, correct?"

"Yes, sir. With choppers, they can be there within half an hour."

"Very well. Have a fifteen-man SPLAT team readied, armed, and standing by in case I signal for help. Thank you, Powers. Well done."

"Thank you, sir," Powers said. "I'll be in touch."

They hung up without goodbyes. Ford went to his ready station—a small closet in his study—and changed from sleepwear to boots, trousers, pullover turtleneck, bandolier with a quantum destabilizer pistol holstered, and his long coat. He dialed Stan's number.

Stan answered right away: "Yeah, Brainiac?"

"You asleep?"

Ford heard his brother snort. "At this hour? It ain't even eleven! 'Course not, I just got in from Woodstick. If you don't know, I'm managing the whole show."

"The festival . . . hasn't closed for the night, has it?" Ford asked, surprised.

"Nah, not until one in the morning, but I came home because—" Stan broke off. "Huh. Why did I? I shouldn't have come home. Why did I leave so early?"

"Something's up. I'll be at your house in five minutes to pick you up," Ford said. "I'll be driving the Land Rover."

"That's sweet, but I don't date my relatives," Stan said. "Seriously, what the hell, Ford?"

"We may be caught up in a paranormal event," Ford said. "And you and I are going to find out if it is, and if it is, what it is and where it is."

"Sheesh!" Stan said. "You mean like when we were like twelve and called ourselves Mystery Twins?"

"Exactly."

Ford heard Stan laugh. "Hot damn! Now you're talkin'! I'll be ready. Just have to get a jacket and my brass knucks."

"Be at the foot of your driveway. That will save time."

"You got it."

Ford headed out—and Lorena, in a bathrobe, met him at the front door. "You may need this," she said, handing him a big silver travel mug. "Coffee, a little strong, and the way you like it."

Ford took it, smiling. "No questions?"

"Why should I ask? I trust you," she said. She grabbed his bandolier and pulled him close enough for a kiss. "You be careful out there."

"I shall try," Ford said, rubbing her back.

"Good. Now you go get 'em," she said.

He walked to the garage, happier than his errand should have made him feel.

* * *

Ford rarely drove the Land Rover Defender—an Agency vehicle—but it was a 4x4, and chances were good that he'd have to venture off-road. Up at the next driveway, Stan climbed into the passenger seat and strapped himself in, and twenty minutes later, as they drove through town and toward the fairgrounds, Stan asked, "So what does all this stuff do?"

The  _stuff_  was an array of electronic screens and displays, which hummed or clicked very softly, packed into an open hard-shell briefcase that rested on Stan's knees. Ford said, "Those are sensors that pick up subtle clues of strangeness in the area. The case bottom has the electronics and controls. The lid has visual displays. The top left screen registers any paranormal activity, but since the line is green, the area's clean. No ghosts or apparitions. The center top screen is a sniffer, detecting any slight atmospheric changes from sensors mounted on the vehicle roof. No alarm signal from that one. The top right detects radiation—"

" _Radiation_? And I got this thing close to the family jewels?" Stan yelped, sounding on the verge of panic.

"No, no, it doesn't _emit_  radiation, it  _detects_ twenty different types of radiation, only four of them potentially lethal."

"Like that's a comfort!" Stan said. "Hey, Ford, it's blinking some green letters and numbers: IR-3, plus sign, 7.7. That important?"

"Yes," Ford said. "It indicates the presence of Type 3 ionizing radiation, a lingering trace as though an ionic impulse engine has passed through in the past twenty-four hours."

"Oh, yeah, of course, that's all clear now," Stan muttered. "OK, bottom left screen shows like concentric circles of green light expandin' out from the center, little sprinkles of green schmutz out round the edges—"

"GRAD," Ford said. "Ground-level radar. The scatter of lights near the edges are the bluffs and higher hills. It's got a limited range because of the elevated land around the Valley, but it may come in handy. Right now it's picking up no aerial traffic."

"Yeah, OK. Bottom center screen is just white numbers that keep changin'. Right now it's five point seve—no, five point eight. It's been swingin' between five and six the whole time."

"GAD. General anomaly detector," Ford said. "That would be disturbing in Iowa. It's very close to normal—for Gravity Falls."

"OK, and the right bottom is just a blank gray screen."

"That will let us display images if and when HQ send us some," Ford said.

"Uh, Poindexter? The radiation whatzis is blinkin' harder, and now it's turned orange. Number is 8.5. Uh-oh, and now there's an orange arrow pointing, uh, to the west, see?" Labeled compass points had sprung up all around the edges of the screen.

"That's good," Ford said. "It's localized the origin of the radiation trail." He took the first left turn. "Now where is it?"

"Uh, swung to about the one o'clock position. North by north-east?"

"Where does this road go?"

"To the fairgrounds. Where Woodstick is!"

"Is that to our right?"

"Naw, dead ahead—right there! See the cars and the lights?"

"Hang on." Ford wrenched the Lincoln off the road and onto a meadow that, years before, had been graded for a concrete-and-asphalt business that had never been built. Weeds and saplings smacked the undercarriage as the big vehicle jounced and lurched.

"Geeze!" Stan said, gripping the open briefcase. "Give me a little warning next time! Where the hell we goin'? We're gonna run into Meadow Creek in a minute!"

"Where's the arrow?" Ford asked.

"Pointin' straight ahead and red! And the number is ten!"

A line of trees loomed up, and Ford braked. Ford took a long drink from the travel mug and passed it to his brother. "Lorena made some coffee. Finish it off."

Stan did in three quick gulps. "Little slug of brandy in it, huh? Tell her it's good stuff."

"I will." Ford cut the headlights and engine, got out and popped the hatch, and handed Stan a quantum destabilizer rifle. "Don't fire this unless it's absolutely necessary," he warned as he pulled a pair of odd-looking goggles over his head, leaving the lenses on his forehead just above his specs. "And remember, Stanley—something that looks different isn't necessarily a threat! You know how to power the—"

The weapon hummed. "Way ahead of you," Stan said, patting the destabilizer.

"Then let's go."

They shoved through the cluster of young pines, found a place where the creek looked narrow enough for Ford to jump across and then turn back and grab Stan's hand to pull him across—almost—and then Ford said softly," Up the bank and it should be within sight. Don't make any noise."

"I'll try not to make anything louder'n my left show squishing," Stan grumbled.

They scrambled up the bank—not very steep—and pushed through another row of saplings. Past that lay a gentle, rolling two- or three-acre meadow, the grass knee-high, dotted with saplings. A waning moon rode in a clear, dark sky, giving them some light, but Ford handed Stan a compact pair of binoculars. He pulled his own goggles down to cover his eyes. "Night vision," he explained. "Switch is on the left barrel. Let's take a good look."

Through the goggles and binoculars, the landscape glowed an eerie light green. And in the bizarre illumination. Ford and Stan saw it at the same moment.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Stan, lowering the glasses and raising his weapon.


	11. All in a Row

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 20, 2016)**

**11: All in a Row**

Ariel had risen from her stool and had come down the short stair at the left side of the stage, without breaking the alluring, sinuous tune she played on the flute—not even for a breath.  _How does she do that?_  Dipper wondered—but that thought was only one of dozens, each fighting for attention. The tall, slender girl paused close to the bottom step and swayed as she played, moon-silvered, her silken dress rippling, her hair almost glowing. She looked ethereal, not like a ghost—more like an angel, Dipper thought.

Wendy still held his hand, fortunately for them both.  _Concentrate, Dipper!_  Wendy thought to him.  _Don't know about you, but it's getting to me. This music is really wanting to make me run away!_

— _And it's trying to make me all sleepy and just want to follow her wherever she goes! Look, there's Mabel and Teek, to the right. Let's see if we can push through to them._

Dipper's twin and her boyfriend, like the others, were shuffling along in a tight-packed group. They had separated—Mabel was three or four people away from Teek, and they didn't seem to notice each other, something that told Dipper things had gone bad very fast and very definitely. The crowd between Mabel and the two of them was impossible to shove through.

The shuffling, enraptured teens all around them didn't consciously try to keep Dipper and Wendy from getting to Mabel, but it was as if all the teens simply were not aware of anyone else—each one might have been the only follower of the flutist. Dipper didn't know many of them—he thought he might have glimpsed Gorney once, the kid who'd been swallowed by the Summerween Trickster, now about thirteen.

As Wendy and Dipper struggled toward Mabel, Dipper led the way, elbowing and shouldering wedges between people, something he ordinarily would never have done. He didn't pause to apologize, because nobody objected or even seemed to notice him and Wendy. It was a struggle, but he led Wendy through the press until at last he grabbed Mabel's sleeve. "Sis!"

Mabel didn't even look at him. Her eyes had the same wide-pupil, blank look she'd had that time she overdosed on Smile Dip. She smiled vacantly, her head gently bobbing, but would not even so much as glance at Dipper—her gaze was locked on Ariel, who now stood on the bottom step as maybe a hundred and fifty teens moved from the seating areas and the hillside and clustered around her.

 _Mabel's hypnotized or something, Dip!_ Wendy thought to him.

— _So's everybody else! What do we do?_

_Dunno! If we could get to Ariel, maybe we could, like, take the flute away from her? But there's a real crush right around her, worse than this. Man, I'm getting' so itchy to leave! I think everybody eighteen or over's left already._

— _It's the opposite with me. I want to get close to her and go wherever she goes. I guess together you and I balance out. Just hold on! We can get through this, but only together!_

_Dip, we have to find out what's going on. What do you know about the Pied Piper?_

— _Just the legend. The town of Hamelin is somewhere in Germany. Back in the Middle Ages, I think in the 1200s, they had a plague of rats, a mysterious sorcerer who dressed in multicolored clothes—pied, they called that—and who claimed he had magic fife or flute showed up and made a bargain to exterminate the rats. The mayor promised him a thousand guilders or something, payment in gold coins, anyway, and then when the piper began playing, all the rats everywhere ran out into the streets and followed him as he marched along. He led hem out of the town and then he waded into a river, and they all followed him and drowned. But then the mayor reneged on the deal and refused to give him the reward he'd been promised. The piper warned the people of Hamelin that they'd pay in a different way on some specific day, I think a saint's day in June. Then he went away but came back on that day, this time dressed in green like a hunter, and this time when he played, all the children of the town followed him. He led them away somewhere. A lot of the stories say he led them to a hill that split in two, and they all went into the gap, and then the hill closed again._

_Pretty much what I remember, too._

— _I read somewhere that there used to be an really old stained-glass window in a church in Hamelin showing the piper and the kids. And in the chronicles of the town, some clerk wrote something like "A hundred years ago today all of our children left." Something real must have happened. People have suggested that the piper was a symbol of the plague or the Children's Crusade or just the Grim Reaper, not a young rat-catcher._

_I think the piper in the legend was a young dude. This piper's a girl, I'm pretty sure._

— _Yeah she—Wait, what's she doing now?_

Wendy didn't have to answer—Ariel had stepped off onto the ground and the packed mob opened a path for her as she came slowly to the front of the stage, turned, and walked with calm deliberation toward the exit gate, and the whole crowd of teens closed ranks again and followed her.

 _Come on!_ Wendy led Dipper up the steps and onto the now-empty stage, bright in the glare of the spotlights, and they ran across to the other side, then leaped hand in hand down to the ground. It almost worked—they had come close to heading Ariel off, but she had made a turn away from the stage, and the mesmerized teens crowded close around her again. Dipper and Wendy managed to get on the left fringe of the group, though, maybe thirty feet behind Ariel. They had closed some of the distance, anyway.

* * *

Ford pushed the barrel of Stan's quantum destabilizer down. "Don't shoot, Stanley! That could be extraordinarily dangerous!"

"But it's a freakin' UFO!" Stan said.

Ford nodded. "It has that appearance! And it may also have weapons of its own that we can't even begin to understand!"

Indeed, the thing they saw ahead did look like the classic image of a UFO—a saucer-shaped disk probably a hundred feet across, thin at the edge, bulging into a thirty-foot-tall dome in the center, with a similar bulge beneath, roughly like a somewhat flattened version of Saturn. From the side closest to them, a narrow unrailed ramp led from the edge of the craft, if it was a craft, down to the grass. Other than that and three jointed legs that supported it about thirty-five feet off the ground, like a huge tripod, they could see no features, not a light, not a porthole, not a hatch. The whole thing gleamed a dull silver, like polished pewter, glowing with its own soft light.

"What are we supposed to do, then, Ford?" Stan demanded. "Tie a white hankie to a stick and walk up wavin' it? I  _saw_  that movie! It did not end well!"

Ford had taken out a small anomaly detector and was scanning the thing. "I'm not picking up any EM emissions at all. It doesn't seem to be communicating in any way, unless it has some method that we don't' understand. Let's approach cautiously."

They took slow step after slow step through the tall, dewy, tangled grass. Stan whispered, "Look, Sixer! The grass right underneath it has been all swirled flat!"

It was just possible to see the compressed grass in the faint glow of the craft. The long stalks looked not only flattened, but almost braided. "Like a crop circle," Ford agreed. "Stop and let me try something." With his left hand he raised a pocket flashlight and began to blink it at the object.

"What are you _doin'_?" Stan asked.

"I'm trying Morse code."

Stan elbowed him. "Come on, Poindexter! These are  _aliens_  we're talkin' about—they probably never  _heard_  of Robert Morse!"

Sounding preoccupied, Ford murmured, "You mean Samuel F. B. Morse. He was the inventor. Robert Morse is an actor. He was in the TV movie that I watched with Lorena,  _Tru._ "

"How should I know if it's true?" Stan growled. "All I know is that if it's aliens, we gotta fight 'em off!"

"Not necessarily. They may not be hostile, and they may not be aliens," Ford said absently. Receiving no response to his blinking signals, he switched to another pattern. "Let me try a simple number sequence, one to ten and then back to one."

"Yeah, you do that. If it answers, I'm shootin'," Stan snapped. "And what do you mean, they may not be aliens?"

"Oh, they could be travelers from another dimension," Ford murmured. "Or time travelers from our own future, or from the Earth's past."

"From the  _past_? It was all like covered wagons and clipper ships back then! Those guys didn't have electricity or flushing toilets, Ford, let alone flyin' saucers!"

Ford shook his head. "You're thinking in a limited way. The dinosaurs were on earth for a vast stretch of time, a hundred and fifty times longer than humans have even existed. What if a group of them became intelligent and built cities, developed technology? The sixty-five million years that have passed since their extinction would have erased all signs of that."

"Ya mean a door in that thing might open and T-Rexes might come chargin' out?" Stan asked. He was covering the vessel with his destabilizer rifle again.

"No response," Ford said, replacing his flashlight and his anomaly detector in the pockets of his long coat. He took out his phone and with surprising dexterity—but then he did have twelve fingers—he began texting.

"What are you doin'?" Stan asked, his voice rising in nervous exasperation. "Invitin' 'em to a tea party?"

"No, just sending an abbreviated coded report to the Agency," Ford said. "And calling in the cavalry. We might need them."

* * *

 _Damn, man! We get so close and then the others block us!_  Dipper could feel Wendy's edginess and frustration.

— _I think she's leading them all the way down the alley and past the VIP lot. If she doesn't turn, it widens out there and there's nothing but the field down to the creek. We may be able to reach her then if we hustle._

_She's gonna notice us. Everybody else is shuffling._

— _Maybe not. As we get away from the stage, it's getting darker. Plus,_   _I don't think she can stop playing the flute. If the music doesn't influence us, we should be OK. That means we have to—_

_I know, Dip. We gotta hang on and make each other stronger. Just hang on!_

It took them about five minutes to clear the alleyway between the kiosks and displays of Merchants' Row and the chain-link fence beside the parking area. And then, as Dipper had predicted, the narrow column of kids ahead of them spilled out into the grassy field. Just as he and Wendy stepped up onto the low berm that was the barrier between fairgrounds and field, Dipper caught a momentary glimpse of something off the right and a couple of hundred yards away, down by the line of pine trees that bordered a creek.

— _Huh!_

_Yeah, I saw it too, man. Looks like a vehicle's passed this way—you can see the trail of crushed grass over there._

— _Is that a Jeep down there, way off to the right up against the trees? Not enough moonlight for me to be sure._

_Can't tell, but yeah, I think it's a car or truck or something. Who'd be driving down there?_

— _Maybe whoever Ariel's going to turn her victims over to!_

_Here we go. It's more open ahead. Let's see if we can flank this mob._

Once out of the narrow alley, Dipper and Wendy angled out and hustled. The tall grass wanted to tangle their ankles and soaked their jeans with dew, but they gradually gained on Ariel, now about twenty feet ahead, now fifteen, now ten.

She was a few steps in the lead of the others, with no kids close to her. Wendy and Dipper, coordinated in their movements by their touch-telepathy, approached to within only a few feet of her when she suddenly stopped and jerked around, her pale eyes wide with shock as she noticed them. Her tune changed, and the crowd of captivated teens paused, not waling, just swaying dreamily.

Ariel—there's no good way of describing it—shot jets of music at Dipper and Wendy, which they both heard and felt. Dipper's head spun with a suggestion to  _follow, follow, follow_ , while Wendy flinched under a stern  _go away_!

They resisted and even took a couple of steps closer.

The sharp music cut into their minds again.

Dipper's hand tightened on Wendy's.

And in a deadly serious voice, Wendy said, "Lady, drop the flute and kick it away!"


	12. War of the Girls

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

 

**(August 20, 2016)**

**12: War of the Girls**

Instead of obeying Wendy's order, Ariel backed away, her flute at her lips. She still played, a melody that made the other teens turn and lumber toward Dipper and Wendy, their gazes mindless, menacing frowns on their features, shambling like the walking zombies in the TV series.

Before the mob could reach them, haul them down, force them apart, Wendy mentally shot Dipper a plan. He didn't even have time to think back to her that he wasn't sure he could do it—

Moving too quickly for anyone to react, Wendy pivoted around Dipper, he knelt, still clutching her right hand in his left, she took a step up onto his bent knee, and, turning a complete somersault, as Dipper did some fancy letting go and grabbing her hand again, she kicked the flute out of Ariel's hands and sent it spinning into the night. "No!" the strange pale girl shouted.

Dipper stood, twisting his wrist to straighten out his and Wendy's handgrip and then reached way up with his right arm—and caught the tumbling flute right in mid-air. He brandished it above his head, like a sawed-off javelin. "Give it back!" pleaded Ariel, standing before Dipper with her hair disheveled, her eyes spilling tears, her arms raised and imploring.

All around them, the teens were muttering and staring at each other. "Where are we?" one of them asked. Others were mumbling variants of the same question.

"Listen up, everybody!" Wendy yelled. "Everyone turn around. See the lights? That's Woodstick! Run back, get in your cars, and take off. Go home or wherever, but you can't stay here! Run!"

Most of them did. However, Teek and Mabel had found each other and stood hugging. "What just happened?" Mabel asked in a kind of dazed voice.

"She hypnotized you with this flute!" Dipper yelled at her. "But Wendy took it away from her!"

"They won't be hurt!" wheedled Ariel. "Please I'm begging you—you don't understand. My masters won't like this!"

"Sucks to be them," Wendy said. "Come on, Ariel, or whoever you really are. You've got to tell us—what's wrong with you?"

Ariel had dropped to her knees. "They're coming!" she squeaked. "It's too late!" Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed.

* * *

"Ford! It's splittin' open like a cracked egg!" Stan said. "Can I shoot now?"

"Not yet!" Ford said. "This situation may call for diplomacy, not force!"

"Yeah? How about force first and then that other thing?"

The spacecraft showed a widening dark gap up toward the top, a long thin pie-wedge of darkness. Something small sped out of it, with a humming sound like a bee scaled up to the size of a pigeon. It moved in quick darts and hovers, like a hummingbird, and bypassed the ramp. It zipped past them, spun, and zoomed back. For a few seconds it orbited the two brothers, who stood back to back, each one armed. "Steady," Ford cautioned. "Steady, Stanley! Listen! If you can understand us, we mean you no harm!"

"Of course I can—" Stan began.

"Not you! Them!" Ford snapped. "The space creatures!"

As though that had offended the little flying creature—though Stan thought it looked more like a drone, except it was technically sort of football-shaped, a metallic silver thing with long flexible wings that blurred and buzzed as it hovered. It didn't answer, but swiveled on its axis and set off away from the disk. "Where're ya goin'?" Stan yelled.

The thing paid no attention to him, but sped over to the trees bordering the creek and vanished from sight. "Extraordinary," Ford said.

Stan, who was more or less facing the spaceship, said, "Just the one? Not much of an invasion force!"

Ford complained, "I can't see clearly. Any others coming out?"

"Nope, that one seems to be it. It must not've thought we were too important. You should'a let me shoot the saucer once, just to get their attention."

And then they heard, from beyond the creek and the trees, a girl screaming.

* * *

"Please!" Ariel screamed, not to Wendy and Dipper, but to the machine that had flown up and hovered about ten feet above them. "Don't kill them! I'm trying to make them understand!" With a wild look in her eyes, she scrambled on hands and knees toward Dipper and knelt in the wet grass, cowering. "The flute! Please! They're afraid you'll damage the flute, and then—"

Gripping it at both ends, Dipper poised it above his knee. Wendy kept her palm against his neck, maintaining their connection. Dipper threatened, "Tell us what's going on, or I'll snap this in two!"

"No, that would kill me, and they'll destroy your world!"

"Better believe him, Ariel," Mabel said from behind her. "My brother's the stubbornest sixteen-year-old alive."

"Tell us!" Dipper said, raising the flute as though he would break it in the next second.

Ariel screamed, throwing her head back, her arms thrashing, her head then jerking from side to side as she babbled in a frightening, insane jumble of meaningless syllables. Then, suddenly calm, she stood up.

In the moonlight, Dipper saw that her eyes had rolled back, showing only the whites, eerie as Ghost Eyes' empty gaze. When she spoke again, her voice had a tinny quality, its cadence more machine-like than human: "You Earth people! Hear us! We demand the return of our commander!"

"Who is he?" Mabel asked. "Ooh, or is it a she? Is Ariel your commander? That is so cool! Does she have a uniform? I bet she has a uniform! Can I try it on?"

For a few seconds, Ariel's jaw hung open as though she, or whatever was speaking through her, could not understand Mabel—or perhaps they could and simply couldn't believe that someone like her existed. Then she said, "The boy holds the commander!"

Dipper held the flute up. "This? It's a flute!"

A raspy voice ordered, "Get away from the kids, you junkyard partridge, or I'll have your guts and gizzard!"

Dipper's gaze jerked around. His two Grunkles were running toward them, Ford with a pistol, Stan with a rifle. "Don't shoot!" Dipper yelled. "It's under control!"

"It  _is_?" Wendy asked. "You sure of that, dude?"

"No," he confessed quietly. "But I don't want to cause some kind of interstellar incident!"

The metallic drone had risen about thirty feet into the air. It beamed a blue spotlight at Ford and Stan as they came huffing up. "What—does this being—want with us?" Ford asked.

"This being," said Ariel's oddly mechanical voice, "is our instrument. We speak through her to you similar creatures. The boy possesses our commander. We demand it be returned to us."

"We'll work this out," Ford said. "But we must understand. First—you are the creatures who brought the spacecraft here," Ford said. "Uh—the one across the watercourse there. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Quickly, force the boy to release the commander—"

"I think not," Stan said, raising the rifle. "We don't force, you don't force. You're about getting' on my last nerve, hummingbird. Listen to my brother, and let's do some talkin'. We gotta get some things straight."

The figure of Ariel slumped a little. "Follow this one. She will lead you to our ship. There we will explain. Only no harm must come to our commander!"

"I won't harm it," Dipper said. "As long as no one hurts any of us."

* * *

"That was fun!" Mabel said on the far side of the creek, pausing to dry her feet on the bandana she had borrowed from Dipper and then putting her sandals back on. "Mm, feels great on tired tootsies! Teek, we should totally go on midnight wades more often!"

"I don't understand any of this," Teek said plaintively.

"Come," Ariel said in her own voice again. She looked frightened and hesitant. "Nothing will harm you."

"Or take us away from Earth," Ford insisted. "They must agree to that."

"They agree. If we can reach an accord, you all may depart. We must board the ship."

"Whoa," Dipper said as they approached the grounded spacecraft. "A UFO, right on the ground and not wrecked! A real, functioning spaceship!" He held the flute in one hand, his phone in the other, and was recording video. Wendy maintained a firm grasp on the wrist of his left hand, which gripped the flute.

"Come," Ariel said again, and she walked right up the narrow—no more than a foot and a half, Dipper guessed—ramp toward the cleft in the hull.

"Last one there's a rotten Klingon!" Mabel said. She spread her arms and zoomed up the ramp like a plane taking off at a steep angle, dodging right around the startled Ariel.

"Pumpkin, wait!" Stan yelled.

But Mabel vanished inside the ship.

The others, led by Ariel, hurried after her. Dipper blinked as they passed from night into a light-flooded chamber, round in shape—he thought of the deck of the various  _Enterprises_ in the various  _Star Treks_ —with a circular bank of—seats without backs, maybe, red and upholstered, anyway—split by a central aisle.

The drone now hovered above them. Ariel said, "The boy must replace the commander in the control compartment."

"No music?" Dipper asked suspiciously.

"No. I will play none of the music."

"No tricks?" added Wendy. "We're gonna get to leave after all this, right?"

"If no harm comes to the commander, they promise," Ariel said. "I may be punished, but—"

The drone hummed loudly, and she broke off, looking down at the deck.

"Where do I put the flute?" Dipper asked.

Ariel didn't answer the question—she didn't have to. A clear cylinder rose from the floor to a height of about five feet, and then a compartment opened. Dipper and Wendy approached it. Dipper could see gold-looking clips inside the compartment. "Here?" he asked, holding the flute out vertically.

Ariel gestured. "Yes. Just place the commander in the clips. The ship will do the rest."

Taking a deep breath, Dipper pushed the instrument against the clips. They closed around it, clicked, drew it into the cylinder, and then the whole clear column lit up with a bright, electric-blue light.

" _You have acted wisely in returning the commander to the ship."_

It was a calm, cold asexual voice—no, actually it was not a voice; the words came directly into Dipper's head, like the thought-reading that he and Wendy could do. And the second he realized that, Dipper realized he could "hear" everyone's thoughts—Wendy's anxious watchfulness, Teek's frank befuddlement, Ford's thousand and one questions, all jostling to be the first one to leap off his tongue into the air, Stan's grave determination not to let anything happen to his family, Mabel's—well, Mabel's envisioning attractive things she could do with Ariel's hair."

" _This mission has failed._   _This has never happened before."_

Ford said, "If you can read our thoughts, you know that we feel like the ones with a grievance. What's going on here? And who are you? And I believe you know all the other things I want to ask!"

"It will take too long to tell you. We will show you instead.

Then from thin air, all around them shimmered an incredibly realistic vision that they all shared.


	13. In Xanadu

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 20, 2016)**

**13: In Xanadu**

_The following is a reconstruction of the vision the humans shared that night, with the Journals of Stanford and Dipper Pines as the primary source._

* * *

They saw . . .

A wondrous city, domes and shining spires, beneath a clear sky, a darker, richer blue than Earth's sky, with a smaller, whiter, hotter sun in it. White steaks of cloud swirled in the blue, as though brushed there by a giant hand. An odd silvery band, almost invisible at the zenith, arched downward to opposite horizons.

"Is that a planetary ring system?" Stanford asked. No one answered.

Dipper couldn't help thinking of the poem that begins, "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree. . . ." Wendy, holding his hand, recognized it as one her night-school college English class had read.

 _This is even stranger than an opium dream, Dipper,_ she told him mentally. And the vision continued to unfold, all around them, on all sides, strikingly three-dimensional but still, only a vision.

The people—for they appeared very humanoid—were gracile and—cliché, but it must be said—beautiful in an exotic way: slim and tall, with long hairless skulls, large gentle eyes, and small smiling mouths. They dressed in what seemed to be one-pieced clothing of varying colors, from pure white to pure black to rainbow mixtures. They ate and laughed. They played strange games with strange balls, they boated on streams of dark water and slow gelid waves, they dandled children and played with them and nursed their small hurts. They lived and had families and grew old and died.

As for the world on which their lives happened: Somehow the humans all heard the name of the planet, though later, comparing notes, Dipper discovered he had heard it as "Wildercan," Ford as "Wulderkhan," and Wendy as "Waldercain." Mabel insisted it was "Wonderland." Teek, who was still finding concentration difficult, had no firm opinion, and Stan said, "Some cockamamie place, I dunno, who am I, Mister Memory?"

Their world seemed a simple place in some ways, an advanced one in others. Machines, walking, rolling, and flying, did much of the work for the people. The people did not seem to be divided into rulers and ruled, or rich and poor. The observers all had the impression that the, well, call them  _robots_  for want of a better term, cared for the people and produced their food and protected them.

Odd. They next saw Wildercan—we may as well use Dipper's term—from space and became aware that, yes, like Saturn, it had a bright silvery ring running around the equator; two smallish moons; the main planet had two polar caps of essentially the same size, each about a twelfth of the planet's surface. At least sixty per cent of the un-iced surface was ocean, with two small continents on opposite sides of the globe, and many scatters of islands.

Their point of view glided from space to the surface and like a surfer, rode waves of wind past mile-high brilliantly colored cliffs, through the twists of whitewater rivers, across expanses of blue-green forests of trees reminiscent of broccoli heads, wide grassy meadows, the plants a deeper green than Earth's, a few sandy deserts, and broad, dark seas, sometimes smooth, sometimes chopped with whitecaps. It was a world of calm and storms, placid nights and warm days, the seasons changing very little, with some snow, some hot days. It was above all a world of breathtaking beauty.

The cities clustered in the open areas, surrounded by farmland tended by machines, and at the seashores, near the mouths of rivers. As far as they could see, the inhabitants of both continents were of the same species and race. The ones on one continent looked exactly the same, dressed the same, and lived the same as their counterparts across the globe. The machines seemed to control the environment on both land masses.

Their impression was that in both parts of the world's civilization, the natives lived the same kind of easy lives, with machines and devices to work for them. They did not seem to have radio or television or computers—at least the humans saw no evidence of them. Almost all of their time was leisure. They did have music, sculpture, art, and dance. If they had literature, the viewers from Earth saw no indication of it.

Then—none of them could say how—they had the impression of many generations passing, with nothing really changing. Except now they had glimpses of sailing craft, built not by machines but by people in the old way with wood and canvas, venturing out on the sea. And then they had a view of contact: A sailing ship from the slightly rounder continent landed on a populated island not far off the coast of the slightly more rectangular continent. A crowd of the island's people sighted the ship and came down to the shore to gaze at it. The crew of the ship rowed ashore in boats—and began to strike down the islanders, beating them with clubs, pursuing even the children, slaughtering them all. Mabel cried out and hid her face against Teek's shoulder.

When the raiders had finished, they looted the empty buildings and set fire to what they could, while a handful of survivors hid on the island. One of them programmed or requested that a machine give them a means of escape, and within what seemed like a few days it produced a small ship, metal, just large enough for the fourteen survivors. They crowded in, and it skimmed to the mainland, hovering two feet above the waves as it sped there.

Next they saw some of the survivors speaking urgently to a man who might have been elderly—he moved slowly anyway—and this man opened a panel, took out a long, thin, cylinder that looked very much like the flute, installed it in a machine, and—

"The war of extermination began," came Ariel's musical voice. The device must have possessed her again. "The first war for a hundred generations. The machine servants had tried to end the war by giving both sides all they could want or need. And yet they fought. The Centurion of Agoth requested my first iteration to produce weapons. This we servants could not do, for over the many years we had ourselves refined our programs never to kill or injure.

"It did not mater. Those of the continent of Spruall built their ships and invaded. The Agothians countered. And so for five generations, back and forth the battle went, and even with primitive weapons, millions died before the end. At last the Agothians created a terrible weapon, a new disease. They unleashed it on the Spruall continent. It exterminated all sentient life in that land. But what the Agothians had not anticipated was that the dying Sprualls secretly landed infected people on Agoth. They spoke, dressed, and behaved as Sprualls, and they spread the contagion. There was no antidote, no treatment, and no time left to devise one. From the time the first Spruall contracted the disease, there was no hope."

The humans saw a world strewn with corpses. Time sped up, like in a time-lapse movie, and the corpses decayed and vanished. Yet still the machines—the servants, which had been neutral all through the terrible war—continued to function, to repair and reproduce themselves as they wore out.

And they, the machines, developed space travel.

"To repopulate the world," Ariel said, "scout ships went seeking life forms that had intelligence and that could flourish in the atmospheric conditions of our planet. By then the disease organisms had long since perished. As Humans count time, fifty millennia had passed since the end of the war.

"Many worlds our unmanned ships visited, many life forms they considered. None were right. Until, over three thousands of your years ago, we discovered the Earth."

The probe had attracted the attention of a young man, a musician (not a rat-catcher). He ventured inside the craft, perhaps thinking it was an unusual cave, and the automated machine closed, sedated him for the long trip, and launched itself on a journey that stretched sixty-odd light-years. It took nearly a thousand years, one-way.

The probe had left behind hundreds of monitors—machines, many of them formed to look like birds, others small animals like cats and dogs. These mingled with humans, listened to them, and over the centuries built up a knowledge of languages—at first mostly Germanic, since they happened to have been left in that area, but a few made it as far as England and Ireland. The cats were no problem—they would stay in one place for years until people started to wonder how old that cat was, anyway, and then they would stray to a distant farm or town and settle in again. The dogs had to stray before families grew too attached to them. The birds went everywhere, unremarked and unnoticed. No arrow or blade could penetrate their skins. They were programmed to escape at once, should anyone attack them.

All of the information these monitors gathered was constantly relayed back to the homeworld at light speed. Most of it reached there long before the probe, which held the young human in stasis the whole time.

On Wildercan, the young man, whose name was Petur, was awakened and greeted by a talking city that spoke his own language. An instrument very much like his simple flute was the core of such knowledge, and with it installed in the central cylinder, every machine on the planet could converse with him. He believed at first that he was in Purgatory or, just perhaps, Heaven. Gradually Wildercan taught him of its plans for him.

Briefly, their monitors had located an area in which the populace lived in poverty. Most children did not survive past their tenth year. The Earth could not sustain these children, and Wildercan needed people. The piper was to return, play the flute in a pattern that would affect the children's brain waves, and bring back at least a hundred of them. The servants needed someone to serve.

On Wildercan, they would live to grow up, have children of their own, and, the servants hoped, learn to live peaceably and happily. By then Petur, who had seen despair and squalor enough during his short life on Earth, thought that was the best thing. He went willingly back to Earth—landing some five hundred years (the machines had improved the technology) after launching from Wildercan.

The town nearest his landing site on Earth happened to be Hamelin, in Lower Saxony.

No rats were involved. Petur went into the town—the gatekeepers thought him a mere minstrel, in his strange multicolored clothing—and he played the tune that attracted the young ones and made the old ones unable to perceive or understand what was happening. He led the children, some 130, to the waiting ship, which split open to receive them; they went inside; and it lifted off and took them in suspended animation to Wildercan.

Once they were on the planet, the machines did everything for them. They merely had to play, eat, sleep, and grow up and reproduce. "Beyond language and a style of writing, we did not teach them a thing," the voice of Ariel said. "For the learning of the original inhabitants of our world caused all the trouble."

Unfortunately, over time the birth rate dropped. Now, Ariel said, Wildercan needed new human blood, for the descendants of the first infusion were dying faster than new children were born. And by now, the monitors had mastered all languages everywhere, and they were aware that something very different was the norm in Gravity Falls. Therefore, Ariel was sent to that location. She was Petur's direct descendant, and within the family, Petur's instructions were firm: The eldest child in each generation had to learn to play a flute. And they had to be named Ariel Hemppin, whether they were male or female. "Let the name be a sign," the founder of the family was supposed to have instructed.

This Ariel was the last in a long, long line. And the first to be called on to visit Earth and bring back children. "We need new people to serve," Ariel said. "Only two hundred or so. Please understand. We must serve someone. They must be served."

"We can't allow that," Ford said.

"Our ship could easily overpower you." The threat, in Ariel's gentle voice, sounded strange.

Ford did not flinch. "Potentially, no doubt. But you can't strike in violence, can you?"

A long pause, and then, "No. We cannot willingly harm a sentient being."

Ford nodded. "Yes, I thought as much. If you could, you would have participated in your war of extermination."

"What you say is true. We will not and cannot force you with physical violence. But understand our need: The human population on Wildercan is declining. We fear they will become extinct."

"Doy!" Mabel said. "I know the problem and how to fix it! Listen, Ariel, or whoever, people can't live if you do everything for them! They need goals! Things to do! Jobs!"

"Let's not go  _too_  far," Wendy said.

"People need a purpose!" Mabel insisted. "Let them, I don't know, build their own houses! Grow their own food! Go fishing! Write poetry! Go bowling! Climb mountains! Invent fashion design!"

"This concept is impossible for us to understand," Ariel said.

"No, it really isn't," Ford said, putting his hand on Mabel's shoulder. "But right now we haven't enough time. Can the ship hide? Perhaps on the far side of the Earth's moon?"

"Easily. That is nothing, a journey of a few minutes."

"Then let Ariel remain here for three of our months. In that time, I will provide her with some training and much information, electronically stored. We can't insist you bring back the descendants of your first abducted group—this world would be too strange for them now—but we  _can_ help you give them a new interest in surviving, in, ah, being fruitful and multiplying—"

"Yeah, like rabbits," Stan said.

"—reasonably," Ford added. "We are willing to trust you. Will you trust us in return?"

"We will think of it. We will let you know when we decide. In the meantime, our beloved Ariel may remain. You may instruct her and provide her with the materials. If you harm her in any way, if you make her unhappy, we shall take the children either from here or from another location. If we decide that your solution bears trying, we will try it. In any case, expect us to return for her in eighty-four of your days. We will communicate through her and tell you where to meet the ship."

"Then let us go," Ford said. "Right now. An armed force of humans will be here within minutes."

"I'll go," Ariel said, speaking not for the machines but in her own voice.

The craft opened again, and Ford jumped up. "Let's hustle, everyone! We're almost out of time!"

They got up, and before Dipper even reached the opening, he heard the clattering chatter of helicopters approaching.


	14. UFOP

**Woodstickin' 2016!**

* * *

**(August 20, 2016)**

**14: UFOP**

"Hurry!" Ford stood at the bottom of the ramp, urging them all off. He pointed. "Get to the creek embankment and hide! Everyone—yes, including you, Stanley!"

"I could be your driver," Stan said.

"No, go! Agent Trigger will be leading this bunch, and if he sees you or the kids and gets his memory back—"

"Sheesh, I'll go, I'll go!" Like a papa goose herding his goslings, Stan ran behind the kids.

Ariel looked round and shouted, "Run a hundred steps from the ship!"

And so Ford joined the exodus, running behind the others. He felt, rather than heard, the spacecraft's engines start. When he had counted a hundred and ten running steps—always add in a fudge factor, one of his rules—Ford turned and saw that the ship had ascended to an altitude of a few hundred feet and hung there silently, bobbing up and down.

The whole ground shook as four helicopters—three SKY-B 150s and one Krait Commando attack ship—vectored in. Ford switched on his watch beacon, and they surrounded him, dropping down as his phone vibrated.

Clasping it to his left ear, covering his right—the noise was incredible—Ford yelled, "This is the chief! Set down and cut the engines. My priority is Union Freedom Charlie Victor One!"

He heard Trigger's voice say something unintelligible—the roar of the chopper engine, the vibration blurring his voice—but all four ships laded in a rough square fifty feet on a side, Ford in the center. From one a group of fifteen heavily-armed figures spilled out Ford switched on his flashlight, and though he pointed it at the ground—pointing it directly at excited troops might result in a fusillade—he recognized Trigger, despite his SWAT gear.

Trigger pulled up as the engine noises died away to chuffs as the blades slowed. "Sir!" Trigger barked, saluting unnecessarily—they were not a military outfit—"your orders!"

Chuckling, Ford said, "Well done, Agent Trigger! Summon everyone, pilots and all, for a quick briefing."

"Sir!" Trigger said, pointing and almost doing a bathroom dance, like a desperate little kid, in his excitement. "There. UFO! Weapons? Assault? Orders!"

Ford placed an avuncular hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Get hold of yourself, Agent! That's no UFO."

"Cannon! Laser blast! Bombers! Call in artillery—wait, what?"

Ford patted his shoulder. "Relax. Call everyone in."

Trigger did, and when some fifty men, most armed, formed up, Ford said, "I'm commending you! That was an excellent UFOP!"

"Whaaat?" Trigger asked, obviously disappointed. "But—but—there's a UFO!" He pointed up at the gently bobbing silver craft.

"What's that noise?" one of the pilots asked.

Ford became aware of it—the sound of a distant, muted flute. "The music? Oh, that's a music festival for the younger folks of the Valley. You can see the lights over there, past the trees. Nothing to worry about."

"Folk music," one of the other guys said. "Kids!"

"What is that thing?" Trigger asked, sounding as if he were ready to burst an artery.

"That," Ford said, "is a weather balloon filled with swamp gas. A decoy to give our UFOP more credibility. After all, you men are trained professionals!"

A voice that sounded like a kid still struggling past puberty asked plaintively, "What's a you-fop?"

"Agent Trigger," Ford said sternly, "explain it to this man."

Trigger came to attention. "Sir! A U-F-O-P is an Unannounced Field Operation Practice event, Sir!"

"Exactly right! Well done!" Ford said. "I will note in the event log the speed and high degree of preparedness of your force, the obvious readiness for action, and, Agent Trigger, there will be a special notation in your service jacket."

The music was a little louder. The armed men had relaxed and were whispering—something strictly forbidden, but Ford chose to overlook it.  _Ariel is lulling them!_ He realized. Which meant something else that he was almost afraid to think about.

But he raised his voice. "I hope everyone can hear me! I am going to release the decoy UFO now! It will ascend out of sight very quickly. Uh—of course you can tell it's only a scale model!"

A moment later the spacecraft shot straight up, rapidly dwindling to a speck like a star.

"Excellent," Ford said. "Very well. This concludes Practice Operation Field Intercept. You men return to your duty stations. Take two days off. Mr. Trigger, that holds for you as well. In one week, I'll expect a full report on your assessment of the crew's performance on my desk, with a short-form PersEval for each agent involved, including the helicopter crews. Make that one week and one day, Trigger: August 29. By three p.m."

"Sir, yes sir!" Trigger said. Ford could tell the man barely prevented himself from saluting.

"Once again, good work, everyone! Dismissed!"

Ford hurried away as the groups returned to the choppers. By the time the engines roared and they lifted off, one after the other, the gunship bringing up the rear, he was with the others down near the creek.

He said to Ariel, "You brought the, ah, flute."

"It will relay what you teach me to the ship," she said.

"It kinda came in handy makin' those tough guys feel all like 'Ooh, kittens and rainbows,'" Stan pointed out, wiggling his fingers.

Ford nodded. "Yes, thank you for that. Now, as for you—Ariel, I believe you must come home with me. My wife and I will provide you with a place to stay and with meals. What I want to do is give you information on the history of humans—things the monitors might not necessarily realize about us. Most of that will be in electronic form, and we'll work out a method of relaying it to your ship. I assume you can, ah, eat Earth foods?"

"I had a soft pretzel, a strawberry milkshake, a candy apple, and a churro," Ariel said. "Boys in the bands bought them for me."

Mabel put her arm around Ariel's neck. "Girl, if you survived a Woodstick churro, you can eat anything!"

"We'll see that your diet is nutritious," Ford said. "I hope you will allow me to take a small blood sample from you and run some tests. I want to ascertain that you have no weaknesses in your immune system. It's been a long time since 1284—disease organisms have mutated. That's our first priority. Well, shall we wade across?"

"Ha!" Mabel said. "Grappling hook!"

* * *

One way or another, they all got across the creek. They reached the abandoned Woodstick, still ablaze with light although completely deserted.

"Geeze!" Stan said. "Look at this! Every light in the park burnin'! Nothin' locked up! I'll have to take care of everything myself—Ford, you go ahead and take Miss Universe to your place and do what you gotta do to make her comfortable. Me, I'm gonna be here for hours!"

"Please come with me, young lady," Ford said. "Um—Mabel, would you accompany us to reassure Ariel that we mean her no harm? Ariel, Mabel is my niece. Do you know that word, niece?"

"Brother-daughter or sister-daughter," Ariel said. "Family. Yes, I know it."

"Teek, see you tomorrow!" Mabel said. "Grunkle Ford, where's your car?"

"It's the Land Rover," Ford said. It's parked across the meadow, near the trees—"

"Gimme the keys!" Mabel said. "The four-wheel drive! Yes! I'll drive it over!"

Dipper wondered if that was a mistake, but Ford handed her the keys, and Mabel set off running. A half-minute later, they heard the powerful engine surge.

Oh, well, there was hardly anything Mabel could run into in the meadow. As soon as Ford, Mabel, and Ariel had driven off, Teek got into his Focus and headed home, too. Wendy said, "Well, I guess Dip and me—"

"Hold on!" Stan snapped. "You two are gonna help me close up shop!"

"Oh, man!" Dipper groaned.

"Dude, he caught us," Wendy said.

By then it was midnight.

* * *

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _So we got back to the Shack around one in the morning. I guess I can't complain too much. The work wasn't very hard, just going around and turning off lights, popcorn machines, deep fryers, things like that, and locking things up. Stan had his master key, and I used the President's key, which worked on almost all the locks._

_The musicians in their RVs were snoring. I guess after Ariel's music finished with them, they just couldn't stay awake to party on. Grunkle Ford phoned a couple of night watchmen, who had heard the flute music and forgotten they had a shift, and they got out of bed, dressed, and came hurrying in. Then as we were getting into Wendy's Dodge Dart, Stan slipped me and Wendy a reward: twenty Stan bucks each. I didn't know he still was making them._

_Anyway, we dropped him off at his and Sheila's house and then the two of us drove the short distance up to the Shack. All the tourist cars were gone—just Melody's, Soos's, and my and Mabel's car were in the lot._

_Wendy and didn't go straight in (she and Mabel are bunking in the attic again, and I'm borrowing the guest room from Mabel), but she and I sat out at one of the picnic tables for half an hour, holding hands and looking up at the stars—there were tons of them, it was such a clear night—and we listened to the crickets and talked about Ariel and her people and the robots, I guess you'd call them, that either served them or were their masters. It was hard to say._

" _Maybe it's a symbiotic relationship," I suggested._

" _Or parasitic," she said. "I don't get it. Why would the people just stop having children?"_

" _I think," I said slowly, "that humans need to have a sense of purpose. Otherwise, life gets pretty meaningless." I was also thinking about genetics—with just a few people to begin with, they might be inbred or something by now._

 _Wendy responded to my thought:_ " _Anyway, whatever the reason, they don't have any right to come down here and kidnap people."_

" _They're machines," I said. "The way they understand things might not be like ours. It's not like we're good guys and they're bad guys, exactly. More like we're the ones in the white hats, and they wear orange derbies."_

 _That got a little chuckle out of her._  " _Well—guess we'll find out in three months," Wendy said._

" _I guess. Mabel and I will be back in Piedmont. You'll have to keep after Ford and make sure he lets us know. He's absent-minded."_

_Telepathically I caught the sharp sense of her loneliness, real as a pang in my heart._

— _I'll miss you, too. A lot. But by then you'll be wearing the ring. And then in one more year—_

_She thought to me, Yeah, I know. Man, it seems like such a long time since we sat on that log and I told you we'd be friends! Now I couldn't go back. You're not gonna get cold feet on me, are you? Leave me at the altar?_

_And I told her that I'd never leave her at all. And I tried to show her why._

* * *

_The End_


End file.
